\^;^' 


LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

University  of  California. 


GIFT    OF 


^____, y^> 44'-^Ar>^X).-C^.^<i 


Class 


This   Book   IS   Presented   By   tKe   Autkor. 
Please  Acknowledge   to 

G.  A.  TOWNSEND, 

GaplanJ,   Maryland. 


(Baplant)  jSMtion 


GEORGE   ALFRED   TOWNSEND'S 

POEMS  OF  MEN  AND  EVENTS 
1899 


POEMS 


OF 


MEN   AND   EVENTS 


GEORGE  ALFRED  TOWNSEND 


GAPLAND  EDITION 

B.  jf.  Bonaventure 

NEW  YORK 

1899 


O"^  THE     ^ 

f'JNIVERSJTY^ 


Copyright,  1870, 1880, 1881, 1899 
All  rights  reserved 


five  f)un^re^  Copies  printe^ 


PREFACE 


I  HAD  devised  a  publication  of  all  my  verses  ; 
but  upon  arraying  them  for  this  edition,  with  its 
limited  page-type,  found  that  the  printer's  nicety 
had  overreached  me,  and  I  believed  that  my  noble 
friends,  the  subscribers,  would  be  better  satisfied 
with  a  selection  of  representative  compositions 
than  with  quantity.  I  therefore  omitted  the 
Poems  in  my  book  of  1875,  and  those  published 
in  "  Tales  of  the  Chesapeake,"  and  "  Bohemian 
Days,"  and  "  Poetical  Addresses,"  and  set  to  the 
front  my  latest  pieces,  not  till  now  published,  and 
added  to  them  particular  reproductions  bearing  out 
the  title  of  this  book,  or  in  line  with  my  present 
preferences  and  ideas.  Forty-three  years  have 
gone  by  since  I  printed  my  earliest  verse.  Al- 
though the  newspapers  have  been  my  bulrushes, 
holding  me  up.  Poesy  has  been  Pharaoh's  daugh- 
ter, raising  me. 

Gapland,  Md,,  March  6, 1899. 


SUBSCRIBERS 

Calvin  S.  Brice 1 

John  Hat 2-7 

Chas.  H.  Tatlor 8-12 

S.  H.  Kauffmann 13-14 

Russell  Algbr 15 

Crosby  S.  Notes 16-21 

B.  H.  Warner 22 

Detroit  Public  Librart 23 

e.  s.  postlethwaite 24 

Charles  Hervet  Townsend 25 

George  C.  Boldt 26-27 

John  Russell  Younq 28 

Congressional  Librart 29 

William  C.  Whitnet 30 

Mrs.  J.  S.  Whitney 31 

H.  P.  Whitnet 32 

Thomas  Regan 33 

Harrt  MacDonna 34 

Benjamin  Le  Fevre 35 

J.  N.  Camden .        .  36 

D.  O.  Mills 37-41 

R.  C.  McCormick •  42 

J.  Watts  De  Petster 43 

Frank  Hecker 44 

Henrt  W.  Cannon 45-49 

John  D.  Archbold 50-60 

Samuel  F.  Hunt 61 

Edwin  S.  Stuart 62 

R.  R.  Hitt 63-67 

Joseph  R.  Hawlet 68 

D.  C.  Walsh 69 

Arthur  W.  Soper 70-74 

Edward  W.  Me  ale  y 75-77 

Sylvester  T.  Everett 78 

William  H.  Egle 79 

Pennsylvania  State  Library 80 

Edmund  C.  Stedman 81-83 

James  McMillan 84 

Charles  F.  Manderson 85-86 

Robert  Dun  Douglass 87 

Benjamin  Douglass •  88 

Francis  L.  Minton 89 

Jonathan  J.  Broome 90 

Jacob  Juvenal 91 

Edmond  F,  Bonaventure 92-101 


Alexander  R,  Shepherd 102-106 

John  G.  Moore 107-127 

William  R.  Moore 128 

Wm.  B.  Allison 129 

A.  W.  DiMOCK 130-131 

Walter  E.  Hildreth 132 

M.  G.  Seckendorff 133 

Shelby  M.  CpivLom 134 

Gkoroe  Q.  Cannon 135 

Francis  B.  Loomis 136 

Richard  Fisher 137 

Edwin  C.  James 138 

N.  O.  Hart I39 

E.  R.  Bacon 140 

Worcester  (Mass.)  Public  Library        ....         141 

M.  H.  De  Young 142 

Frank  H.  Mason 143-144 

Arthur  P.  Gorman 145-149 

Edward  O.  Wolcott 150-154 

Thomas  P.  Ochiltree I55 

A.  Loudon  Snowden 156 

Garret  A.  Hobart I57 

H.  C.  Hansbrough 158 

William  McKinley I59 

John  D.  Crimmins         .       . I6O 

Victor  F.  Lawson 161 

Samuel  Bancroft,  Jr 162 

Howard  Jones,  M.D 163 

Henry  C.  Lammert 164 

Alex.  P.  Brown 165-167 

John  K.  Cowan 168 

Lawrence  Townsend 169 

James  W.  Barbour I70 

E.  v.  Murphy I7I 

Charles  G.  Barber 172 

Stephen  B.  Elkins 173-175 

Levi  P.  Morton 176-177 

Wm.  H.  Lambert 178 

WiLLARD   SADLSBURY 179 

M.  T.  McMahon 180 

J.  B.  Foraker 181 

Simon  Wolf 182 

Eugene  M.  O'Neill 183-187 

Thomas  J.  Emery 188 

Chas.  C.  Glover 189 

(To  May  1,  1899.) 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BiBTHDAT  Thoughts 

POEMS  OF  MEN 

John  Pabke  Custis 

Judges'  Graves 

William  B.  Allison 

Blaixe 

g 
Planta  Genista 

Dante      

Reading  Gibbon ^ 

Calvin  Bbice 

Sophie 

To  John  Sherman       '''''"''      17 

Kidnapped  Parsee ^ 

Jacob  Gruber       

Magruder      

ROSCOE    CONKLING 

To  James  A.  Garfield ^^ 

R.  B.  Hates ^J 

Andrew  Johnson 

William  H.  Seward t^ 

"Used  w  Van" 

POEMS  OF  EVENTS 

With  Greelet  at  Richmond j° 

Irving  at  Burr's  Trial *^ 

Oak  Hill 

John  Quinct  Adams'  Dlirt ^^ 

To  Edmund  C.  Stedman ^ 

E.  K-  T ^ 

Joshua ,_ 

^                                                                                 .       .      o7 
Ralston 

Memminger's  Life 

PALOS f 

In  Grote's  Greece ' 

.       .     73 
Jefferson 

Governor  William  Fbanklin  •■•''•'- 

At  Ayr '^ 


CONTENTS. 

TRAVELERS'  REST 78 

WASniXGTON 95 

C^SAR 95 

J.  B.  Stillson 96 

Politicians'  Christmas 97 

COMMANDER  LINCOLN 99 

Nothing  Falls  so  Far 104 

To  Henrt  M.  Stanley.            106 

Local  Grkatness 107 

MARYLAND  POEMS. 

Needwood Ill 

Packhorse  Ford 115 

Freddie's  Clock 120 

Yertes'  Spring 124 

Baltimore 128 

Sir  John  St.  Clair 132 

SOUTH  MOUNTAIN 133 

WASHINGTON  CITY  POEMS. 

Smithsonian 156 

Mart  of  the  Capitol 161 

Cloture 164 

Guy  Losel 166 

Tangier 168 

Bob  White I73 

QUEEN  CHRISTINE !  175 

Washington  Monument 185 

Cloy I85 

Rocking  Chair 186 

Sanctumonious 187 

Respectability 188 

Dying  Letters 189 

Richard  !  O  My  King 190 

Mirror  Song 192 

American  Slaves  in  Tripoli 193 

Shakespere's  Friends 194 

Songs  of  Youth 195 

New  England 197 

Unserved 198 

MORMON'S  OLD  WIFE '.  201 

Harpers'  Ferry  Sunset 206 

Her  First  Glasses 207 

Bessie 208 


CONTENTS. 

Mary  Washington 209 

War  Correspondents'  Memorial 213 

News  and  Love. 215 

Snowfall  at  Night 217 

DELAWARE  POEMS. 

Georgetown 220 

Swede  and  Indian  Cantico 224 

Dover 225 

Land  of  No  Account 230 

The  Oregon 232 

The  Circuit  Preacher 234 

Little  Grisette 239 

The  Pigeon  Girl •        •        ■  242 

The  First  Hunger 243 

De  Witt  Clinton 247 

PoE 247 

Byron 248 

John  Jay 249 

The  Soul  Driver 249 

Psyche -250 

LiNN^us 250 

William  Penn 251 

Defoe 252 

Brooklyn  Bridge  Towers 253 

Bartholdi's  Pharos 255 

Physical  Homage 257 

Rowdy  Shah 259 

FROM  GAFLAND 259 

MoRSB 260 

"  Make  Me  a  Lap  " 261 

First  Blackbirds 262 

Hanging  Lamp 264 

As  the  Crow  Flies 265 

Iron  Hill 267 


Building 


269 


Boccaccio 270 

Old  Kent 271 

Saint  George 274 

Old  Frank  Blair 274 

Ulysses  S.  Grant 277 

Benjamin  Harrison 281 


Salt  River 


282 


Death  of  the  Siamese  Twins 287 


CONTENTS. 

The  Fire  Guest 289 

Spinoza 294 

Events  and  Creeds 294 

In  Rama 295 

Rachel 296 

Angels  in  Mask 298 

Ride  from  Five  Forks 299 

Land  of  Pocomoke 303 

Old  St.  [Mart's 307 

Herman  of  Bohemia  Manor 309 

Mecca  from  Oasis 326 

Latter-Dat  Saints 327 

Plating  House 327 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait Frontispiece 

Author's  Birthplace,  Georgetown,  Delaware    .  facing  p.     3 


Author's  Study,  Gapland 

Hall  from  the  East,  Gapland        .... 

Hall  at  Gapland 

Library  and  Den,  Gapland      ..... 

War  Correspondents'  Memorial,  from  the  East 

The  Circcit  Preacher,  —  The  Author's  Parents 

Gapland,    South   Mountain,   Maryland,    the 
Author's  Seat 


War  Correspondents'  Memorial,  Gapland  . 
Vault  at  Gapland 


37 
58 
111 
156 
213 
234 

259 
299 
end 


Of  THf 

university' 


Author's  Birthplace,  Georgetown,  Delaware 


Of   TMf  ^ 

.  ■  1  <; .'  r-  ri  K  I  "p  Y  3 


POEMS 

BIRTHDAY  THOUGHTS 

JANUARY  30,  1899 

King  Charles's  soul  took  flight 
This  day  from  his  cabal : 

I  am  no  Jacobite, 
My  date  is  radical. 

Our  place  is  in  the  van, 
We  move  before  the  facts ; 

The  blood  of  Milbourne  ran 
For  antecedent  acts. 

I  know  not  if  his  name 

And  type  were  in  my  dam, 

Our  phantoms  seem  the  same 
And  as  he  was,  I  am : 

Stern  to  perceive  and  say, 

Though  not  officially. 
And  quit  the  humble  way 

From  vaulting  sympathy ; 

An  English  partisan 

To  swell  our  kingdom  big, 
My  christening  Georgean 

And  all  my  color  Whig ; 


POEMS 

Nor  yet  from  landed  dower 

To  reason  and  to  speak, 
Impetuous  for  power 

To  help  the  faithful  weak ; 

My  quiU  drawn  from  the  goose 
I  hissed  the  cautious  sense, 

And  wrote  to  be  of  use, 
And  for  my  audience. 

Events  were  all  my  Muse, 

They  warped  my  wish  more  pure 
And  dried  the  fresher  dews 

Of  morning  literature. 

Imperfect  everywhere 

As  is  the  cannon  cast, 
Small  time  did  I  forbear 

To  touch  it  into  blast. 

Nor  loaded  on  my  heart 
That  hungered  to  be  free, 

The  convoluted  art, 
The  printer's  factory. 

Strong  manhood  justly  wrecked 
I  took  my  arms  between, 

Nor  harmed  the  eagle  pecked 
By  tits  of  concourse  mean ; 

Nor  would  with  herds  unite,  — 
The  small  peccary  band : 

I  was  the  last  Free  Knight, 
Goetz  of  the  Iron  Hand. 


BIBTHDAT  THOUGHTS 

To  this  withdrawing  pride 

From  daws  and  choughs  and  rooks, 
I  owe  the  countryside 

And  company  of  books, 

Preferring  to  be  blind 

And  silent  lines  pursue, 
As  Milton's  lonely  mind 

The  light  of  Eden  knew. 

A  few  strong  friendships  kind 
My  castles  did  maintain,  — 

The  conquests  of  the  mind 
To  have  its  causes  gain. 

How  blessed  to  have  seen 

And  known  wide  Freedom's  day ! 
Whose  generations  lean 

The  forests  hid  away, 

Since  Indians  lost  among 

Beneath  the  cypress  firs. 
My  fathers  learned  their  tongue 

And  were  Interpreters. 

Now  almost  lost  again 

Amidst  a  mighty  race, 
Amidst  the  teeming  men, 

My  art  is  like  the  chase ; 

My  bow  is  well  outclass'd. 

My  arrows  shoot  to  err. 
But  to  a  forest  Past 

I  was  Interpreter. 


POEMS 


POEMS  OF  MEN 


JOHN  PARKE  CUSTIS 

To  Boucher's  school  I  will  not  go 

If  Nelly's  gate  I  must  go  past ! 
At  school,  I  learn  so  very  slow  ; 

From  Nelly  I  learn  twice  as  fast. 
Sweet  Nelly  Calvert,  are  you  there  ? 

Blue  jacket,  boy's  hat,  riding  whip  ? 
Mount  Airy  has  not  too  much  air 

When  swells  my  heart  to  Nelly's  lip. 

Turn  from  the  road  !  the  pines  are  green, 

Our  teacher  shall  be  the  wood  dove ; 
Stepfather  Washington  is  keen 

And  thinks  that  school-boys  should  not  love. 
What  did  he  know  of  love,  I  ask, 

When  in  my  mother's  gate  he  turned  ? 
Love  is  the  most  delightful  task 

That  two  together  ever  learned. 

Here  is  a  hazel-berried  sprig, 

I'll  set  it  in  your  fillie's  fore. 
Kiss  me  if  I  am  not  too  big  ! 

Reprove  me  not  if  I  adore  ! 
This  budding  spring  is  perfect  bliss  ; 

Who  would  not  rather  on  thee  look 
Than  dawdle  at  Annapolis, 

Or  at  Mount  Vernon  hug  a  book  ? 


JUDGES'    GRAVES 

At  Nottingham  my  boat  is  moored 

I  sent  it  round  Potomac  way, 
We'll  put  our  hunters  both  aboard 

And  canter  on  to  Herring  bay ; 
So  far  our  guardians  won't  pursue 

But  let  us  have  an  all-day  freak 
And  I  will  bathe  you  in  the  blue, 

Sky-feathered  wing  of  Chesapeake. 

Or  sail  you  down  the  golden  roads 

Patuxent's  ships  are  lost  within, 
To  dream  more  love  than  Ovid's  odes 

Sighed  to  your  high  mysterious  kin ; 
Thy  grandam  sm-ely  was  a  queen, 

I  feel  her  sceptre  in  thy  moods, 
Thy  government  is  as  serene 

As  Pocahontas  in  her  woods. 

There  flashed  a  fox  I    She's  like  a  bow 

And  arrow  on  her  courser's  stride. 
Sweet  mistress  —  Yoricks  !  Tally  ho  ! 

The  way  to  take  you  is  to  ride. 
Like  a  hawk's  shadow  see  her  flow  ! 

To  horn  and  hounds  her  strain  is  bred. 
She's  galloped  into  Marlboro' : 

Nelly,  we're  found  out :  let  us  wed  ! 


JUDGES'  GRAVES 

Pretty  Edenton  !  dreammg  on  the  Sound, 
In  thy  level  cotton-fields  is  a  burial  ground 


6  POEMS 

Near  a  planter's  dwelling,  past  a  miller's  creek : 
(Hold  the  foxhounds  back  whilst  the   tombs    I 
seek !) 

To  the  States  and  province  both  of  foreign  birth, 
Guests  of  courteous  Johnstons  even  in  the  earth, 
Iredell  and  Wilson  like  water  oaks  of  gnarl 
Sleep,  as  often  in  one  bed,  by  shining  Albemarle. 

Washington's  own  Justices  on  his  bench  supreme, 
Here  fortuitous  they  meet  in  everlasting  dream, 
Young   in   years,   in    wisdom    deep   and   mutual 

partisan. 
They  lie   like   David   in   the    cave,    asleep  with 

Jonathan. 

How  the  rigid  cedars  grow,  drinking  of  their  skulls  ! 

As  the  lawyer  from  their  minds  imknowing  of  them 
culls. 

How  the  cotton  lint  is  blown  on  their  rusted  grill ! 

How  the  bluebird  sings  to  them  and  they  a  cen- 
tury still ! 

As  their  court  in  robes  is  bowed  to  the  bench  recess, 
While  the  bar  stands  to  the  sound  sudden  of  "  0 

yes  !  " 
These  preceding  in  their  shrouds  that  God-visaged 

one, 
Cried  unto  the  final  Judge  their  caller,  Washington. 

Ye  who  dream  that  passions  quit  Justices  divine. 
Pause  and  read  Iredell's  memoir  by  Wilson's  un- 
marked shrine ! 


WILLIAM  B.  ALLISON  7 

He  who  Independence  signed,  on  the  Bench  grew 

pale, 
Lest  the  Sheriff    drag  him  down  to  the  debtors' 

jail. 

Knightly  Raleigh  who,  hard  by,  planted  Roanoke, 
Harried  to  the  axe  and  block  by  abusive  Coke, 
No  more  wantoned  in  career  than  this  Scottish 

chief 
On  whose  breast  the  humid  light  twines  the  myrtle 

leaf. 

Broken-spirited  he  hid  where  he  might  not  dwell, 

By  the  wealth-untroubled  home  of  his  friend 
Iredell,  — 

He  of  Ireton's  Cromwell  race,  of  his  name  un- 
done. 

Followed  Wilson  on  the  bier,  out  from  Edenton. 

As  they  rode  their  circuits  round,  till  the  General 

Term, 
They  assemble  where  the    Chief   Justice   is    the 

Worm ; 
In  the  air  their  Institutes  like  a  shedding  tree 
Annually  blossom  forth  greenest  Liberty. 

1887. 

WILLIAM  B.  ALLISON 

The  talent  nature  gives  of  Graciousness 
Ambition  most  perverts,  but  it  outlasts 

Wide  combinations  and  august  address, 
And  at  its  table  gentles  and  outcasts 


»  POEMS 

Holy  Communion  take,  like  Christ's  repasts. 

Allison !  framed  to  give,  not  to  refuse. 
By  grace  is  made  refuser  of  the  state ; 

He  sayeth  "no"  the  heart  not  to  abuse, 
He  smooths  the  suppliant  not  in  vain  to  wait, 

His  largess  falls  where  needful  like  the  dews 
That  o'er  the  chilly  zone  precipitate  — 

And  freshening  influence  on  the  land  diffuse ; 
Like  Providence  his  years  we  do  not  count, 

Nor  see  the  frost  around  the  living  fount. 

BLAINE 

(BY  GAIL  HAMILTON  DODGE) 

A  WISTFUL  spirit  sensitive 

Whose  onset  ended  in  "  forgive  !  " 
And  who  was  timid  not  to  live ; 

He  seemed  a  ruler  of  affairs 

But  pined  away  with  little  cares, 

His  port  the  hound's,  his  heart  the  hare's. 

Inspiring  love,  hate  echoed  it. 
He  was  uncautious  in  his  wit 
And  wounded  men  of  savage  grit ; 

They  kept  him  from  the  diadem. 

They  stabbed  the  steed  which  trampled  them. 

The  people  kissed  his  garment's  hem. 

He  did  not  have  the  moral  might ; 
He  had  the  leman's  tender  lio-ht 
That  greatness  visits  in  the  night. 


PLANTA    GENISTA 

A  transport  still  thou  didst  bequeath : 

That  thou  wert  only  underneath, 

Take,  Blaine  !  the  white  Camelian  wreath ! 

This  book  it  also  is  thy  tomb  ; 

Two  women  watched  it,  one  to  doom, 

A  light  of  Maries  fills  its  gloom. 

So  is  thy  end  as  thou  didst  rise  ; 
Not  with  a  sword  thy  sculpture  lies  ; 
The  pen  for  penmen  must  suffice. 

1897. 

PLANTA  GENISTA 

Peetty  honne  of  black  Angers, 

Sweeping  daily  in  my  room  ! 
Do  I  from  you  breathe  the  airs 

Of  the  yellow-flowering  broom  ? 
Plant  that  the  crusaders  set 

In  the  helmets  of  Anjou 
And  were  called  Plantagenet 

From  the  broom  that  busies  you  ? 

Fleurs  de  lis  have  made  me  tire, 

Stale  the  French  camelias  bloom, 
But  my  homesick  thoughts  inspire 

Tender  memories  of  your  broom : 
How  the  housemaids,  o'er  the  sea, 

Ran  my  boyhood  round  the  room 
And  the  broomstick  fell  on  me. 

When  I  fought  them  for  the  broom. 


10  POEMS 

Could  I  be  a  boy  again, 

Would  I  have  that  struggle  o'er  ?  — 
While  I  see  you,  pretty  wren, 

Hopping  on  my  sunlit  floor 
With  your  high  cap's  snowy  lace, 

On  your  cheeks  a  rosy  bloom, 
While  your  instepped  slippers  chase 

Waltzes  round  the  flashing  broom  ? 

Now  I  see  how  Geoffrey's  son 

Was  the  Queen  of  France's  groom ! 
Round  his  whisking  youth  she  spun 

Like  the  spirit  of  your  broom ; 
Swept  his  mind  up  like  the  floor. 

In  it  one  cool  vision  set. 
Till  there  were  but  Eleanore 

And  the  bold  Plantagenet. 

Your  forefathers  came  to  harms 

By  Plantagenetic  arts 
Rifling  for  concealed  arms 

All  too  near  Sicilian  hearts, 
In  my  heart  your  hand  is  deep 

And  my  blood  runs  like  a  flume,  — 
At  your  masthead  you  do  sweep 

Up  its  river  with  your  broom. 

Would  you  give  me  but  my  due 

If  I  grew  a  moment  gay  ? 
As  the  red  Fulk  of  Anjou 

France's  Northmen  drove  away? 


PLANT  A    GENISTA  H 

Or  like  Anjou's  Margaret 

In  the  Roses'  wars  of  doom, 
In  your  widowed  helmet  set 

All  the  terrors  of  the  broom? 

Rent's  knightly  orators 

Gave  not  sweeter  tunings  vent 
In  the  tilts  of  troubadours 

Than  your  household  implement ; 
I  can  see  the  bright-skinned  slaves 

Dusting  in  my  fever  room, 
Like  the  cool  tree  shadows'  waves, 

When  your  white  arms  move  the  broom. 

You  are  of  King  Robert's  race 

And  his  daughter's  romance  owe — 
Fiammetta's  bending  grace 

To  a  lone  Boccaccio ; 
Lean  your  broom  by  me  in  trust, 

I  can  tell  you  tales  as  fair ; 
You  have  swept  my  mind  of  dust 

With  Griselda's  light  and  air. 

One  sweet  kiss  that  shall  Angers 

Ever  on  my  spirit  bloom  ! 
On  my  heath  of  barren  cares 

Plant  the  blossoms  of  the  broom ! 
Hyssop  with  your  lips  my  sins  ! 

For  the  lists  my  courage  whet ! 
And  among  your  Angevins 

Crown  one  more  Plantagenet ! 


12  POEMS 

DANTE 

Like  some  bronze  statue  rust  the  more  restores, 
Dante  !  thou  standest  in  the  junk  of  old : 
Armor  and  crosiers,  catapults  and  oars, 
That  make  thee  Pluto  in  a  hell  of  mold. 
All  that  hell  was  thy  bony  features  hold, 
Death  and  imagination,  monkish  stern ! 
A  savage  Christ,  thou  Virgil's  hand  did  fold, 
Mild  pagan  company  in  hell's  sojourn,  — 
Poet  who  might'st  in  thy  dark  age  have  told 
The  light  of  Friar  Bacon,  Bannockburn  ! 
Letters  melodious  in  a  barbarous  tongue 
Thy  banished  genius  turned  thy  age  upon. 
And  feudal  night  with  acclamations  rung 
As  when  in  Florence  wheeled  her  gonfalon. 

READING  GIBBON 

Some  penance  for  my  father's  wrong. 

In  purgatorial  cell. 
His  son  would  do  that  memory  strong 

They  named  an  Infidel ; 

He  who,  exiled  from  sire  and  home 

For  his  credulity. 
Made  of  the  mighty  tale  of  Rome, 

Homerian  history. 

The  pulpiteers  they  did  instil 

Aspersions  partisan, 
I  bought  his  book  and  kept  it  till 

I  read  it  when  a  man. 


BEADING   GIBBON  13 

Then  Koran,  Talmud,  Testaments, 

Old  Moses  or  his  scribes 
Like  whimseys  seemed  in  Arab  tents 

Took  down  by  savage  tribes. 

The  vast  procession  of  mankind 

Like  some  great  circus  seemed 
In  his  kaleidoscopic  mind, 

Metempsychosed  or  dreamed. 

Still,  in  the  terms  of  them  who  pray, 

I  thought  his  book  so  wise 
He  seemed  like  Christ  on  judgment  day. 

Who  held  the  great  assize. 

He  wove  the  bad  with  so  much  glad. 

In  my  astonishment 
Haroun  al  Raschid  in  Bagdad 

Was  less  magnificent. 

By  night  or  day  in  cave  or  camp. 

His  touchstone  had  such  skill 
Aladdin  with  the  burning  lamp 

Was  Edward  Gibbon  still. 

No  creedsman  and  no  mountebank, 

Nor  of  his  soul  afraid, 
He  had  the  instinct  of  the  Frank, 

And  was  the  last  crusade. 

Nor  in  the  literary  life. 

His  gallantry  was  sunk  ; 
His  love  was  Necker's  noble  wife, 

For  her  he  was  a  monk. 


14  POEMS 

He  left  the  gates  of  faith  ajar 
For  science  yet  to  hope  : 

A  gentleman,  a  warrior, 
An  Emperor  and  Pope. 


CALVIN  BRICE 

"  I  HAVE  been  everywhere," 

Said  Calvin  Brice, 
"  In  battle  and  affair, 
Society  and  snare : 
If  there's  anything  up  there,  — 

Purgatory,  Paradise,  — 
I  would  like  to  go  and  see 
For  curiosity ! " 

Said  Calvin  Brice.  * 

The  spirits  in  the  air 

Heard  Calvin  Brice ; 
They  knew  how  he  would  dare, 
So  seeing  and  so  fair. 
Country-hearted,  debonnaire. 

And  with  never  avarice  : 
"  He  shall  have  his  wish  and  come  ! 
Play  the  dead-march  on  the  drum 

For  Calvin  Brice  !  " 

From  the  dead  line,  sans  care, 

Stepp'd  Cahdn  Brice, 
Topographer  to  dare 
And  with  gods  to  pay  his  share, 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Brice  to  Hon.  Edward  Wolcott. 


SOPHIE  15 


Or  with  apparitions  fare,  — 
However  fall  the  dice. 

He  has  gone  beyond  the  goal, 

The  pioneering  soul 
Of  Calvin  Brice. 

And  if  they  keep  him  there,  — 

Our  Calvin  Brice  — 
With  his  Absalom  hair, 
And  his  nose  large  and  square, 
'Tis  because  that  everywhere, 

He  is  without  artifice. 
Hell  and  heaven  must  delight 
In  a  soul  so  apposite, 
As  Calvin  Brice. 


SOPHIE 

ALBERT  GALLATIN  TO  LAFAYETTE 

MAY  28,  1825 

Let  me  sit  by  Sophie's  grave 
Where  the  hemlock  woodlands  wave 
Far  above  the  river's  rave  — 

My  tender  Sophie ! 
She  was  all  I  had  to  bless 
In  the  savage  wilderness  ; 
Brief  the  time  of  our  caress. 

My  angel  Sophie ! 

O'er  the  mountains  following 
Like  the  leaping  fairy  spring. 


16  FOE  MS 

How  she  made  the  young  birds  sing, 

To  see  my  Sophie  ! 
Folded  on  my  breast  so  tight, 
Round  us  fell  the  Indian  night : 
She  was  hidden  morning  light — 

My  bride,  my  Sophie. 

It  was  spring  she  brought  with  her ; 
Summer's  precious  loiterer, 
Autumn  dug  her  sepulcher. 

My  darling  Sophie ! 
O,  my  heart  was  like  the  stone, 
Lettered  only  with  my  moan  ! 
Earth  and  I  were  here  alone ; 

The  winds  wailed,  "  Sophie  ! " 

Then  I  quit  my  shaggy  glen. 
Plunged  into  the  strife  of  men ; 
Glory  was  a  wild  beast's  den 

Without  my  Sophie. 
Cruel  seems  it  to  achieve 
And  her  dear  mould  here  to  leave ; 
Can  she  suffer  as  I  grieve, 

My  lonely  Sophie  ? 

Though  she  sent  a  sister  down 
My  sad  life  of  man  to  crown, 
I  am  dreary  with  renown  — 

It  is  not  Sophie  ; 
The  wild  laurel  on  her  breast 
Of  all  my  laurels  is  the  best : 
Leave  me  here  to  sob  and  rest 

By  what  was  Sophie  ! 


KIDNAPPED  PABSEE  17 

Let  me  weep  on  Sophie's  grave  !  — 
Life  is  timid,  death  is  brave  — 
I  go  mad  to  think  how  clave 

To  me,  child  Sophie. 
Blessings  on  thee,  little  wren ! 
Though  I  never  come  again 
To  her  mound,  I'll  hear  thee,  when 

I  think  on  Sophie. 

New  Geneva,  Pa. 

TO   JOHN   SHERMAN 

Thy  blue  eyes  look  from  thy  unguileful  mind 

Like  the  boy  orphan's  in  thy  mother's  brood, 

Or  tender  on  the  wife  thy  manhood  wooed. 

Who  now  is  speechless  though  her  look  so  kind : 

The  violets  are  not  more  freshly  dewed 

Than  thy  bright  eyes  and  country  heart  behind. 

Industry,  Freedom,  Solvency  thy  heirs, 

They  have  marched  on  beyond  the  old  frontiers, 

Clean  are  their  wheatfields  thou  hast  cleansed  of 

tares. 
And  their  remembrance  thy  retirement  cheers. 
I  think  how  oft  that  million-blessing  palm 
Has  crossed  my  hand  with  no  official  feare 
And  seem  to  talk  to  Nestor  in  his  calm 
When  Homer  knew  liim  in  the  vale  of  years. 
October  24,  1898. 

KIDNAPPED   PARSES 

In  Leitersburg  along  the  mountain  line 
I  fed  my  horses  while  I  stopped  to  dine 


18  POEMS 

Amidst  the  gravestones  by  a  blood-red  church 

That  like  a  red  bird  in  a  tree  had  perch 

Upon  a  summit  near  the  wagon-stand, 

Where  flows  Antietam  into  Maryland. 

The  fleeing  slaves  here  watched  by  bloody  men 

Unto  their  slavery  were  turned  again 

Just  as  they  saw  salvation's  bright'ning  day 

Upon  the  sill  of  Pennsylvania. 

A  generation  since  then  had  gone  by, 
And  all  the  landscape  laughed  in  liberty : 
Free  schools  and  railways,  factories  and  roads, 
And  on  the  mountain  chateaus  and  abodes, 
Orchards  of  fruit  and  never-tiring  wheat 
Made  Freedom's  evolution  thrice  complete. 

Here  Jacob  Leiter  in  the  West  so  far 
Had  pitched  his  town  just  after  Braddock's  war. 
When  southward  moving  o'er  the  mountain  crown 
The  Germans  like  a  bursting  dam  streamed  down 
And  spread  their  hamlets  o'er  the  valley  thick 
And  made  a  Germany  of  Frederick. 

Joseph,  his  heir,  near  three  score  years  dwelt  here 

And  died  not  till  Emancipation  year. 

I  read  on  slender  monuments  the  life 

Of  Joseph  Leiter  and  of  Ann  his  wife 

And  drowsy  in  that  summer  noon  I  lay 

Between  their  graves  and  dreamed  this  dream  away. 


"  What  sort  of  nigger  is  this  we  see 
Riding  a  horse  like  a  white  man  free  ? 


KIDNAPPED  PABSEE  19 

Come  show  your  pass  ere  you  go  that  way!" 
The  man  said  only,  "  Parsee.     Bombay." 

"  He's  a  Indian  nigger  but  he  will  sell ; 
Virginia  niggers  are  bred  too  well : 
We'll  cross  Potomick  with  him  'fore  day !  " 
He  sobbed  and  muttered,  "  Parsee.     Bombay." 

They  pulled  him  down  and  they  took  his  horse, 
The  fierce  kidnappers  without  remorse ; 
They  chained  his  feet  as  they  hid  him  away 
And  gagged  him,  mocking,  "  Parsee.     Bombay." 

He  drew  a  drug  from  his  straight,  black  hair 
And  swallowed  it  with  a  gurgling  prayer 
To  the  Sun  that  was  setting,  fiery  red, 
And  he  fell  in  the  shamble  stony  dead. 

They  found  him  there  whom  they  meant  to  sell 
Cold  as  a  clapperless,  copper  bell 
In  the  shop  on  the  undertaker's  lot,  — 
Joseph  Leiter,  who  knew  it  not. 

Joseph  Leiter  had  bom  a  son 
That  day  as  the  light  was  almost  done ; 
At  night  he  came  to  his  carpenter's  shed 
To  finish  a  coffin  for  some  one  dead ; 

His  lantern  fell  on  the  sulphur  face 

Of  a  stranger  of  some  alien  race 

And  the  dead  lips  bubbled  or  seemed  to  say : 

"  Me  poor  Parsee  from  me  home,  Bombay." 


20  POEMS 

Joseph  Leiter  the  dead  man  put 

In  the  coffin ;  the  lid  he  shut. 

Thus  to  his  wife  his  pity  ran : 

"  They'll  steal  a  coffin  who  steal  a  man !  " 

Two  days  passed  and  the  dead  forgot, 
Light  one  night  was  in  Leiter's  cot ; 
Soft  he  looked  and  the  dead  man  stood 
Out  in  his  kitchen  cooking  food. 

Thinking  he  saw  a  ghost  or  witch, 
Leiter's  heart  had  a  deadly  twitch: 
"  Gruehre  jire^^  did  the  dead  man  say, 
"  Ormuzd  raised  me  !  Parsee.     Bombay ^ 

Panther  men  through  the  window  pane 
Watched  the  Parsee  living  again : 
"  Where  is  he  ?  "  they  asked  his  host. 
"He  is  dead  and  ye  saw  his  ghost." 

In  his  coffin  at  noon  they  saw 
Him  still  dead  who  had  found  no  law ; 
In  the  churchyard  his  pit  was  dug. 
He  had  swallowed  a  second  drug. 

Their  dead  neighbor  the  clods  immerse, 
While  on  the  undertaker's  hearse 
O'er  the  mountain,  the  midnight  through, 
Leiter  drove  with  the  dark  Hindoo. 

Still  in  the  West  the  dusk  of  night 
Covered  the  vale  from  the  mountain's  height : 
Gettysburg  in  its  East  repose 
Bloomed  with  the  sunrise  like  a  rose. 


KIDNAPPED  PARSES  21 

Rose  from  stupor  the  tranc'd  Parsee ; 
Worshipp'd  the  sun  on  his  bended  knee  ; 
Cooled  in  the  West  his  eyeball  far, 
Shuddering,  "  Ahriman  !  slavery  !  WAR  !  — " 

Bathed  in  the  summit's  springs  with  bliss, 
Gave  unto  Leiter  a  freeman's  kiss, 
Slipped  a  ruby  his  finger  upon 
Saying  '-'•  Keep  it  for  little  son!" 

"  Nay,"  spoke  Leiter,  whose  greed  was  strong, 
"  We  have  treated  a  stranger  wrong. 
You  that  are  risen  like  Lazarus 
Owe  no  present,  like  that,  to  ws/" 

Putting  the  jewel  back  in  his  hair, 
Gorgeously  glowing  a  planet  there. 
The  Parsee  like  a  Prince  did  say : 
"  Iran  will  give  to  thy  son,  Bombay  ! 

"  I  have  seen  where  the  inland  seas 
Drop  in  the  West  like  our  great  Ganges 
Into  thy  Hindostan  of  wheat. 
Where  shall  arise  Calcutta's  seat ; 

"  Send  thy  son  to  that  infant  mart ! 
Teach  him  the  Parsee's  merchant  art ! 
He  shall  beget  one  beautiful ! 
She  shall  marry  the  Great  Mogul !  " 

There  they  parted  but  back,  anon, 
Leiter  bending  above  his  son. 
Little  fingers  felt  in  his  hair. 
Clutching  a  ruby  tangled  there. 


22  POEMS 

"  This  was  meant  for  our  baby's  dower ; 
That  dark  man  was  a  man  of  power  : 
With  the  jewel  the  boy  shall  grow, 
Lighted  by  wisdom  to  Chicago  !  " 

Long  but  sure  was  the  infant's  fate ; 
He  was  a  merchant  where  trade  was  great ; 
From  his  life  like  a  lance's  sheen, 
Grew  a  daughter  that  looked  a  queen. 

She  was  loved  by  a  statesman  wise,  — 
Mighty  India  was  his  prize 
Millions  held  in  the  famine's  sway 
Knelt  as  she  landed  at  Bombay. 

Tall  and  fair  from  her  hair  to  her  feet 
She  was  saluted :  "  Lady  of  wheat ! 
Spirit  of  bread!  as  we  die  we  pray 
Be  our  white  lily,  Queen  of  Bombay !  " 

But  the  bride  of  the  Viceroy  sees 
One,  most  agfed  of  the  Parsees, 
Piping  to  her  like  the  croon  of  the  wind, 
"  Lady  of  Leitersburg !  Ruby  of  Ind ! 

"  Red  as  the  ruby  thy  veins  they  wave 

Through   the  star'd  midnight  where  groped  the 

white  slave ! 
Thou  and  thy  country  are  messaged  with  light ! 
Day  of  the  Guebre  !  Freedom  from  Night !  " 


JACOB   GBUBER  23 

JACOB    GRUBER 
1819 

Sally  Howaud,  Sally  Gruber,  dat  one  nigger 

left  to  you 
Makes  me  seem  so  inconsistent !  Lawyers  named 

her  —  she  is  Sue! 
When  I  glaze  and  paint  de  parsonage    boys  in 

Fred'rick  going  past 
Yells  at  me,  "  Presiding  Elder,  has  you  bought  a 

soul  at  last?  " 

Well !  For  de  Redeemed  de  devil  sets  a  woman 

in   his  trap 
And  I  loved  you,  Sally  Gruber,  with  your  nigger 

in  your  lap. 
When  I  said,  "  Emancipate  her !    Set  her  free  and 

say  good-bye," 
Then  you  and  that  nigger   Susan  hugged  each 

other  for  to  cry. 

I   had  said  to   dem  soul  drivers  what  de  gospe 

bade  me  tell 
When  at  Hogeboom's  woods  I  thundered  "  Slavery 

is  part  of  Hell  1  " 
Then  dey  bound  me  over,  Sally,  for  de  court  at 

Hagerstown 
I  de  venue  moved  to    Fred'rick ;    was  acquitted 

with  renown. 

Lawyer  Taney  spoke  two  hundred  dollars'  worth 
of  eloquence. 


24  POEMS 

For  I  paid  de  money  to  him,  two  years'  hire  for 

my  defence, 
Jury,  people,   Methodism,  patted   Gruber   on  de 

back : 
Lord  amercy  !  Here  in  Frederick  I  must  own  dat 

gal  so  black  ! 

If  I  was  agin  a  blacksmith,  people  at  me  would 
not  hoot, 

Shoeing  horses  with  my  nigger,  both  of  us  as 
black  as  soot; 

But  as  Freedom's  whitest  hero,  Susan  in  my 
servitude, 

Nigger-buyers  yell  behind  me :  "  Gruber  by  him- 
self is  Sued  !  " 

Like   de  richest  men  in  Fred'rick  if    uncurrent 

bills  I  shave 
Then  dey  call  me  "  Jacob  Greedy  dat  has  married 

Sally's  slave." 
But  de  Book  Concern  expects  me  for  dem  books 

at  par  to  pay, 
And  to  get  back  lawyer's  money  I  can  find  no 

other  wa}'. 

When  I  feed  de  oats  I  cany,  my  necessity  to  fit, 
To  my  critter  at  the  roadside,  sinnere   call  me 

"  Hypocrite." 
Tavern  keepers  twit  me,  saying,  "  He's  converted 

mighty  good,  — 
Preacher  owning  of  a  nigger  and  too   stingy  to 

buy  food!" 


MAGBUDER  25 

I  was  sharp  myself  at  scooting  veils,  high  bonnets, 

coffee,  tea, 
Dogs  and  canes,  campmeeting  courting :    now  day 

throw  dem  up  to  me. 
Vendues  scattered  when  dey  saw  me  in  my  drab 

and  broad  brim  come. 
Now  de  asses  call  me  "  Balaam,"  sajdng  "  Cuss  us 

Slavery  some ! " 

Your  blue  eyes  and  pious  beauty  touched  me  in  a 

tender  cord. 
And  like  Abraham  in  Egypt  where  King  Pharaoh 

was  Lord, 
I    did    call  you   "  Sister  Sarah,"   never  thinking 

what  would  be : 
Love  decoyed  me  in  your  image  to  bow  down  to 

Slavery. 

Could  I  know  de  slave's  affection  Freedom's  gift 

would  be  above 
And  within  de  house  of  bondage  Hagar  stay  for 

Sarah's  love  ? 
Love,  excuse  our  inconsistence  !  Love  has  put  us 

all    astray. 
Call  de  handmaid  in,  my  Sarah,  and  we  three  wiU 

kneel  and  pray. 

MAGRUDER 

Magkxjder  was  our  foemen's  name. 
They  won  my  seat  and  youthful  fame 
And  drove  me  from  the  public  aim ; 
O  how  my  father,  tawny,  fierce. 


26  POEMS 

On  my  swift  downfall  was  a  brooder ! 

As  lightning  doth  a  black  cloud  pierce 
He  flashed  "  Farewell,  my  son  —  Magruder !  " 

Betwixt  our  houses,  forked,  sleek, 

Spread  into  bays  a  salty  creek, 

And  rival  neighbors  stiU  must  speak ; 

My  father  foxed  and  rioted, 
Took  hand  and  cup  with  each  intruder, 

But  in  his  laugh  was  something  dead 
At  greeting  each  fair-haired  Magruder. 

Meantime  the  law  I  learned  to  plead 
And  in  a  distant  place  succeed, 
I  took  a  wife  of  different  creed 

And  my  deep  temper  like  a  monk 
I  strove  to  alter  when  I  wooed  her. 

Till  of  the  chalice  as  I  drunk 
I  said  "  Communion  with  Magruder !  " 

My  mother  fled  and  sought  my  side 

And  sighed  unto  me  as  she  died 

"  Dear  son !  have  not  thy  father's  pride !  " 

In  holy  ground  I  had  her  laid. 
The  Jesuits  would  not  exclude  her,  — 

Hard  poverty  came  to  my  aid 
And  in  my  cares  I  lost  —  Magruder. 

High  handed  was  our  Irish  race ; 
I  won  our  old  colonial  place 
By  tricking  of  the  populace. 

In  the  State  Senate,  thorough  willed, 
I  led  my  party  like  a  Tudor 


MAGBUDEB  27 

Till  came  a  sound,  "  Thy  father  killed 
In  lust  and  choler  young  —  Magruder !  " 

He  slew  the  boy  beside  his  board, 
Into  his  breast  he  drove  a  sword. 
Because  a  child  they  both  adored ; 

Magruder's  heart  was  young  and  bright, 
My  sire  was  gloomier  and  ruder. 

He  fled  for  hoary  shame  by  night 
And  on  his  hearth  expired  Magruder. 

The  old  man  died  of  black  despair 
Hard  by  me  in  a  mountain  lair,  — 
A  faithful  slave  hid  with  him  there 

And  in  his  garden  him  interred: 
No  printer  to  it  was  alluder ; 

The  old  plantations  only  heard 
That  by  our  name  was  slain  Magruder. 

Magruder's  race  died  of  chagrin ; 
They  got  no  justice  for  their  kin. 
I  grew  more  humble  for  our  sin 

Till  came  my  time  when  high  in  station 
I  leaped,  an  unknown  interluder. 

And  wrung  the  withers  of  the  nation 
And  trembled  for  the  sound  —  "  Magruder." 

I  brought  a  wail  from  ruined  trade 
As  from  the  homicidal  blade,  — 
O  had  Magruder's  buried  shade 

Told  but  his  tale  I  had  been  ended. 
My  furious  race's  last  concluder  ! 

To  solemn  heights  I  still  ascended 
And  crossed  myself  to  lay  Magruder. 


28  P0E3fS 

The  paroxysm  left  me  long, 
But  party  frenzy,  deadly  strong, 
Lured  my  old  age  to  human  wrong ; 

I  smote  the  helpless  from  my  height 
As  hi  my  father's  frosty  pudeur  : 

The  world  cried  out  in  my  despite. 
But  not  a  raven  croaked  "  Magruder  !  " 

Five  years  and  forty  since  the  crime 
Had  left  me  but  a  wrinkled  mime. 
To  seal  that  record  old  with  grime 

I  wrote  my  life,  I  passed  it  bland 
To  one  who  would  still  be  excluder 

Of  that  which  would  my  pandect  brand 
And  on  my  statue  write  "  Magruder." 

Then  in  that  Jesuit's  guarded  spot 
Wherein  my  father's  grave  was  not, 
I  thought  his  shade  would  be  forgot 

That  I  would  be  beyond  the  crowd 
My  secret  knowing  no  obtruder : 

I  quit  my  coffin  in  my  shroud  — 
The  tombstones  next  me  spelled  "  Magruder.'' 

There  do  they  stand  in  pallid  white. 
They  see  my  spectre  every  night 
And  balk  my  purgatorial  flight : 

"  Justice !  "  they  cry,  "  thou,  Justice  Chief ! 
Thy  fame  was  won  as  a  deluder  I 

Thy  neighbor's  life  took  like  a  tliief 
Stands  in  thy  court  of  death,  —  Magruder !  " 

Frkdekick,  Md.,  August  30,  1898. 


BOSCOE   CONKLING  29 


ROSCOE   CONKLING 

The  peevish  school  exclaims, 

That  thj  return  so  gladdens  great  New  York ! 
These  spiteful  leaders  make  us  miss  the  more 

One  man  of  lofty  mark ; 

One  young  man  yet  sincere, 

Whose  scorn  is  scorn  and  his  affection  sweet. 
Whose  mind  was  never  humbled  to  the  crowd, 

Nor  cowered  by  defeat ; 

Who  thinks  exalted  things. 

And  typifies  the  Empire  of  our  State 

His  brain  amidst  the  atmosphere  of  kings, 
And  strong  among  the  great; 

For  such  New  York  forgives 

His  manly  frailties  in  the  love  of  her, 

Her  pride  contented  while  a  statesman  lives 
To  be  her  Senator. 

No  lobby  Warwick  made 

This  royal  nature  to  be  bought  and  sold. 
His  honors  never  were  the  gains  of  trade, 

Nor  compliments  of  gold. 

He  walked  to  our  respect. 

Nor  crept  and  courted  like  a  devious  dog ; 
His  forehead  bore  the  sign  of  one  elect. 

Beyond  the  demagogue. 

In  his  inherent  strength 

Of  classic  mind  and  national  intent, 


30  POEMS 

All  schools  and  parties  sought  the  leader  out, 
Within  his  argument. 

There  shall  he  shine  a  star, 

When  baying  foes  and  envious  presses  cease, 
His  record  gallant  in  the  time  of  war, 

And  gentlest  after  peace. 

1876. 

TO   JAMES   A.    GARFIELD 

A  PKOPHECT 

Thou  who  did'st  ride  on  Chickamauga's  day, 
All  solitary  down  the  fiery  line. 
And  saw  the  ranks  of  battle  rusty  shine. 
Where  grand  old  Thomas  held  them  from  dismay, 
Regret  not  now,  while  meaner  pageants  play 
Their  brief  campaigns  against  the  best  of  men ! 
For  those  spent  balls  of  scandal  pass  their  way. 
And  thou  shalt  see  the  victory  again. 
Modest  and  faithful,  though  these  broken  lines 
Of  party  reel  and  thine  own  honor  bleeds, 
That  mole  is  blind  which  Garfield  undermines, 
That  dart  falls  short  which  hired  malice  speeds, 
That  man  will  stay  whose  place  the  State  assigns, 
And  whose  high  mind  a  mighty  people  needs. 
1874. 

R.   B.    HAYES 

The  silent  taker  of  abuse 

Not  friendless  proves  when  death,  as  still, 
Takes  him  into  the  camp  of  truce 

And  beats  the  taps  on  good  and  ill ; 


ANDBEW  JOHNSON  31 

Soldier,  who  did  life's  work  fulfil, 

However  compromised  by  fame  ! 
The  sunny  world  respects  thy  end, 

The  states  united  speak  thy  name, 
The  soldiery  thy  grave  attend. 

And  wives  of  gentles  do  the  same, 
To  join  thee  to  the  beauteous  mold 

Who  waits  her  bridegroom  in  that  wood, 
Where  but  the  good  denotes  the  bold. 

And  all  of  beauty  is  the  good. 

ANDREW    JOHNSON 

They  who  in  Northern  hamlets  drew 
The  warrior  breath  of  freedom  in, 

The  Southrons'  struggle  little  knew  — 

That  obdurate  and  sturdy  few 

Whose  feet  were  set  against  their  kin, 

Who  for  the  Union  sought  the  hills 

And  lived  like  hunted  things  of  prey ; 
In  household  feud  and  civil  ills 
That  put  to  test  their  iron  wills  — 
Those  renegadoes  held  their  way. 

Tall,  bony  men  of  Iiish  stock. 

And  local  loves  that  bound  them  fast. 
The  Union  only  was  their  rock, 
And  like  the  pines  they  stood  the  shock 
And  grew  the  tougher  for  the  blast. 

The  fife  and  drum  they  did  not  hear 
That  mustered  millions  to  resist ; 


32  POEMS 

The  State's  command,  high  and  austere, 
Reached  not  their  mountain  atmosphere ; 
The  Nation's  roar  alone  they  list. 

But  peace  renewed  a  hundred  ties 

The  Northern  statesmen  never  feel : 
Traditions  steadfast  as  the  skies, 
That  slowly  fade  among  the  wise, 

And  wounds  of  pride  that  slowly  heal. 

No  negro  was  the  mountaineer 

Whose  freedom  was  his  fathers'  spoil  — 
"What  time  they  mustered  with  Sevier  — 
He  felt  himself  the  planter's  peer. 
And  nothing  servile  for  his  toil. 

Yet  rights  like  his,  with  blood  bequeathed, 

Were  now  the  bondsman's  easy  prize ; 
For  this  his  willing  sword  unsheathed. 
The  peon's  brow  with  bays  had  wreathed  — 
Himself,  his  brood  the  sacrifice. 

So  Andrew  Johnson's  neighbors  spoke, 
And  half  their  sullenness  was  his ; 

He  was  a  man  of  lowly  folk. 

And  restive  under  every  yoke. 
Except  the  yoke  of  prejudice. 

He  governed  men  from  that  estate 
Of  humble  birth  and  old  neglect 
When  on  his  tailor's  bench  he  sate, 
And,  sewing,  mused  on  man  and  fate 
And  tyranny  of  caste  and  sect. 


ANDBEW  JOHNSON  3S 

Still  in  his  soul  the  phrases  clung 

His  wife  from  ancient  charters  read ; 
They  grew  inspired  upon  his  tongue, 
And  to  the  hills  his  challenge  rung, 
And  unto  Fame  the  echoes  led. 

One  grand  invective  was  his  life, 

But  rounded  yet  by  reverence  ; 
His  one  superior  was  his  wife, 
His  route  to  power  only  strife. 

His  egotism  ne'er  pretence. 

The  slavery  he  hated  most 

Was  slavery  of  the  freeborn  mind  ; 

The  freedom  that  he  made  his  boast 

Was  not  a  sentimental  toast, 

But  freedom  for  his  white  mankind  ; 

And  honest  hands  made  courage  sure. 

Thrift  grew  on  blessed  penury ; 
A  Congress  mighty  but  impure. 
In  freedom's  plea,  could  not  endure 

This  lonely  man  of  Tennessee. 

The  subtler  Lincoln  suckled  still 

A  poor  white  Southern  mother's  breast"; 

So  freedom  chose  to  work  her  will. 

One  ruler  from  the  Southern  hill, 
Another  from  the  prairie  West. 

And  freedom  came  from  such  as  these. 

Who  felt  the  slavery  they  broke ; 

Not  from  scholastic  halls  of  ease, 

Not  from  the  dreamy  Eastern  seas. 

But  from  the  hovel  and  the  yoke. 
1870. 


34  FOEMS 

WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD 

Son  of  New  York !  sit  thou  amongst  us  daily 

Where  all  go  by, 
And  Broadway's  currents  meet  and  flow  most  gayly 

In  our  bright  sky ! 
Reveal  that  pen  whose  hidden  work  was  greater 

Than  cannon's  roar, 
And  boyish  brow,  the  placid  agitator 

Of  times  of  yore ! 

Sit  with  thy  books,  thou  man  of  gentle  story ! 
There  is  no  heaven 

For  thee,  unless  the  clangor  of  its  glory- 
Shall  have  their  leaven ; 

Not  on  the  sword,  the  ermine,  or  the  gavel 
Thy  farewell  look. 

Thou  rounded  life's  adventures  with  a  travel. 
And  made  a  book. 

And  from  thy  closest  thoughts  of  power  departed, 

Like  eagles  freed. 
And  distant  foemen  saw  a  lion-hearted 

Hero  indeed. 
Domestic  traitors  held  thy  life  abhorrent. 

Thy  name  a  spell. 
And  still  the  spring  that  fed  the  swelling  torrent 

Was  but  a  cell. 

Child  of  the  State,  whose  sceneries  imposing 

Are  like  its  acts  — 
The  storm  upon  its  lakes  and  mountains  dozing 

And  cataracts  — 


WILLIAM  H.    SEWABD  35 

Thine  was  the  pen  that  clove  the  war's  disorder 

With  our  decree, 
And  wrote  on  histor)^  the  Godlike  order  : 

Let  man  be  free  I 

Not  in  a  general's  dress,  a  sword  and  tassels, 

Thou  greet'st  the  age, 
Like  one  who  came  to  free  another's  vassals 

By  might  of  rage  ; 
But  in  the  simple  vesture  of  thy  neighbors, 

With  book  and  pen, 
A  tired  lawyer  resting  from  his  labors, 

And  citizen. 

There  where  the  crowds  of  every  nation  haunt  thee 

And  ne'er  desist. 
Cosmopolite  or  pioneer,  we  plant  thee. 

Thou  optimist! 
Thy  mind  as  various  as  the  race  of  people 

Thy  heart  forsaw ; 
Thy  lesson  loftier  than  the  Christian  steeple  — 

A  Higher  law ! 

Son  of  New  York  !  sit  thou  amongst  us  daily 

Where  all  go  by. 
And  Broadway's  currents  meet  and  flow  most  gayly 

In  our  bright  sky ; 
Reveal  that  pen  whose  hidden  work  was  greater 

Than  cannon's  roar. 
And  boyish  brow,  the  placid  agitator 

Of  times  of  yore  ! 
1875. 


36  POEMS 


"USED   UP  VAN" 

"  We  three  will  make  our  New  Year  call 

Upon  Van  Buren  after  night, 
When  lonesome  in  his  palace  hall 

Turned  out  the  people  and  the  light ! 
Seward  is  master  in  New  York, 

The  banks  are  broke,  the  wealthy  beg ; 
We'll  find  the  President  a  stork 

Dozing  upon  a  single  leg." 

Webster  and  Clay  picked  up  Calhoun 

To  comfort  Van  in  his  despair. 
The  White  House  bathing  in  the  moon 

Ducked  in  its  brand  new  porte  cocMre. 
The  well-known  trio  passed  the  door. 

Their  echoes  chased  them  in  the  gloom, 
And  on  the  Turkey  carpet  floor 

They  tip-toed  to  the  great  East  Room. 

"  He's  lost  in  space,  a  bumble  bee," 

Growled  Webster,  "  rising  less  and  less  !  " 
"  His  Independent  Treasury  " 

Quoth  Clay,  "  is  hollow  emptiness." 
"  He  lies  in  my  usurped  bed 

Beside  my  bride  in  damned  doom," 
Calhoun,  the  blue-lit  Hamlet,  said 

And  rapped  like  death  upon  a  tomb. 

Light,  laugh  and  shout  burst  through  the  door ; 
Along  the  parlor's  grand  extent 


■^«  A  R  V 

''    OF   THt 

of 


*'  USED   UP  VAN''  37 

Playing  at  leap-frog  on  the  floor 

They  saw  the  ruined  President ; 
His  grown-up  sons  along  the  row 

Made  him,  another  playmate,  stoop, 
And  o'er  his  bald  head  winged  with  snow 

They  jumped  their  father  with  a  whoop. 

Son  Abram's  Carolina  bride, 

Angelica,  just  out  of  school. 
Was  laughing  "  fit  to  split  her  side  " 

To  see  the  great  man  play  the  fool. 
Martin  and  John,  like  heralds  stem, 

Kept  parent  Martin  on  the  run. 
And  made  him  leap-frog  in  his  turn 

And  saw  that  he  leaped  every  one. 

"  Good  friends,"  the  President  exclaimed, 

"  These  boys  their  mother  left  to  me  ; 
I  promised  not  to  be  ashamed 

Ever  to  keep  their  company ; 
To  keep  them  and  myself  so  young 

And  of  each  other  ever  fond. 
That  when  our  worldly  pride  was  stung 

Our  fireside  would  not  have  despond. 

"  My  wife  my  schoolmate  cousin  was  ; 

These  youngsters  are  ray  cousins,  too. 
You  will  not  find  them  frivolous 

When  there  are  harder  things  to  do. 
Good-natured  Dutch,  within  our  roost 

We  keep  up  holidays  with  rout, 
I  play  with  them  as  mother  used,  — 

They  will  not  leave  their  father  out." 


38  POEMS 

"  This  is  the  secret  of  his  court," 

Said  Webster,     "  Let  us  learn  his  joys ! 
We  were  too  solemn  for  the  sport: 

He  practiced  leaping  with  the  boys. 
Take  off  your  coats,  Calhoun  and  Clay ! 

And  take  a  lesson  how  to  leap ! 
We'll  jump  Saint  Martin  yet  some  day 

Who  plays  the  boy  when  we're  asleep." 

WITH  GREELEY  AT  RICHMOND 

MAY  18,  1872 

At  Rocketts'  pier  the  bugles  blow, 

The  clattering  horsemen  ride, 
And  squadrons  wheel  with  naked  steel 

By  James's  peaceful  tide. 
And  up  the  stones  of  Richmond  town 

The  column  files  at  will, 
As  if  a  traitor  rode  to  die 

Up  Tower  or  Tj'burn  hill. 

A  poor  old  man,  grey-haired  and  bent. 

Amongst  the  troopers  rides  ; 
He  sees  the  captured  capital 

O'erlooking  floods  and  tides. 
Where,  in  his  power,  the  standards  blew. 

Unfurled  at  his  command, 
That  waved  in  sight  of  Washington, 

And  dyed  the  Rio  Grande. 

Now  silently  the  people  peer 
Who  used  to  cheer  his  name, 


WITH  GREELEY  AT  RICHMOND         39 

As  if  it  were  a  time  of  fear, 

And  his  were  all  the  blame ; 
They  soon  forget  both  fame  and  power 

Who  but  disaster  win, 
And  he  who  ruled,  an  Empire's  chief, 

Must  make  his  jail  an  inn. 

They  bring  him  to  the  traitor's  court, — 

This  old  and  broken  man  ; 
And  e'en  the  judge  looks  down  in  grudge, 

Like  any  partisan. 
The  la wy el's  wait  to  tell  his  crimes. 

The  jury  hate,  forewarned,  — 
By  heaven  !  it  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  see  a  strong  man  scorned ! 

Then  one  stepped  out  from  all  the  throng, 

And  said :  "  This  must  not  be  ! 
My  pen  which  wrote  his  cause  unjust. 

Shall  write  his  liberty. 
On  yonder  hill  the  grass  is  green  — 

With  pleasant  spring's  increase. 
So  green  be  all  the  fields  of  war, 

And  all  our  duty  Peace. 

"  Ye  dare  not  test  him  lest  he  'scape  ; 

Ye  shall  not  keep  him  pent ; 
Each  foe  stands  now  a  citizen, 

A  flock  for  every  tent ; 
Let  kindly  law  again  prevail, 

And  victory  do  no  crime. 
For  hand  in  hand  we  twain  must  walk 

Down  all  the  paths  of  time  !  " 


40  POEMS 

They  marvelled  much  who  loved  him  not, 

This  quaint  old  man  to  see, 
Whose  name  the  planters'  children  knew, 

An  ancient  enemy ; 
And  though  some  mocked  his  loving  zeal 

With  many  a  coarse  retort, 
He  made  the  rebel  chieftain  feel 

The  North  had  still  a  heart ! 

IRVING   AT   BURR'S   TRIAL 

1807 

My  Rip  Van  Winkle  twenty  years  asleep 

I  see  reversed  with  Colonel  Burr  come  down, — 

Youth,  startling  these  long-haired  Virginians. 

The  Cainish  outlaw  of  New  York  is  here 

A  Jesus  in  the  temple,  routing  doctors : 

How  masterful  serene  !  how  lustrous  eyed ! 

Delight  of  women !  linnet  of  the  cage  !  — 

Fresh  are  the  species  of  America ! 

I  threaded  Europe  lately  with  the  pang, 

"  I  must  return,"  but  this  is  wonderful. 

And  yon  Chief  Justice  is  Praxiteles 

Gazing  on  Phryne,  the  stripp'd  courtesan. 

Whom  he  means  to  acquit  for  loveliness. 

I  marvel  not  my  brothers  were  for  Burr ; 

I,  mourning  Hamilton,  compassionate 

This  beauteous  heifer  which  did  gore  his  life, 

Gentle  but  in  her  bovine  period. 

That  deer-split  hoof,  his  hand,  did  fire  the  shot 

Which  emptied  nature  of  Minerva's  child : 

The  sons  of  God  were  yet  like  Aaron  Burr, 


IRVING  AT  BURR'S    TRIAL  41 

Daughters  of  men  these  freakish  Jeffersons. 

Men  say  he  ruins  women :  women  never 
Have  thrown  a  stone  at  Burr,  their  Antony. 
His  fawns  were  white.     His  sacerdotal  touch, 
Like  Eli's  sons,  was  holy  to  his  dupes,  — 
Heir  of  the  Eleusinian  mysteries. 

Treason  or  misdemeanor  his  offenses  ? 
Ridiculous  alternatives,  i'  faith ! 
Treason  is  levying  War  against  Us  only : 
Yon  Randolph,  Burr's  defender,  breathed  it  so, 
Gouverneur  Morris  phrased  it  thus  exact : 
Virginia's  limitation.  New  York's  words. 
Burr  is  but  traitor  to  Virginia's  cockloft 
And  each  one  there  than  he  more  traitorous : 
Madison  wrote  Secession  Resolutions, 
Monroe  delivered  our  flag  to  France, 
Randolph  betrayed  us  from  the  cabinet, 
This  Wilkinson  is  in  the  pay  of  Spain, 
And  Jeffereon  plotted  the  Excise  war. 
Burr,  driven  away  by  their  conspiracy. 
Drew  from  the  times  the  filibuster's  dream, — 
Miranda's,  Rogers  Clarke's,  Eaton's  and  Lewis's, — 
To  speed  our  destiny  before  its  ripeness 
In  the  indefinite  Hispanian  waste, 
His  febrile  fancy  fired  by  Bonaparte 
And  the  bright  recollections  of  his  youth 
In  martial  camps  these  coistrils  never  joined. 
Long  will  that  West  the  hunted  stag  allure. 
It  is  Imagination's  substitute 
For  the  fenced  Paradise  of  cherubims 
Whose  swords  on  none  but  their  fall'n  equals 
flame : 


42  POEMS 

Hark  to  the  British  cannon  off  Virginia !  — 
Our  sailors'  shrieks !  ^    O  for  one  hour  of  Burr 
And  Hamilton ! 

Twig  now  yon  other  Randolph 
Who  brought  in  the  indictment !   'Tis  high  treason 
With  him  to  be  born  anywhere  but  here : 
He  looks  the  snipe  with  railing  faculties 
Run  lean,  —  a  skeleton  in  excitation. 
John  Wickham  of  Long  Island,  bred  to  arms 
At  Arras,  France,  o'er-matches  William  Wirt, 
Co-amateur  with  me  in  lightsome  Letters, 
Who  has  the  heavy  vividness  of  armor. 
The  treatment  for  this  trial  is  humor : 
A  cat  fight  in  one's  party  brought  to  bar. 
Our  Constitution  makes  theology. 
That  curser  is  one  Jackson,  Tennesseean, 
Who  would  not  vote  respect  to  Washington 
And  now  damns  Madison,  —  an  Almohade. 
What  height  is  in  that  Scott,  the  fledgling  lawyer ! 
He's  out  of  Amadis  de  Gaul ;  if  years 
Are  sold  by  inches  he'll  outlast  us  all. 
Virginia's  genius  in  its  women  lies. 
Their  love  of  pleasure  not  their  men's  indulgence : 
How  lovely  were  those  shoulders  at  the  ball ! 
And  every  sylph  for  Burr  but  no  man  for  him. 

Two  lawyers  here  are  drunk  by  early  morning. 
There  is  old  Callender,  the  libeller, 
Diogenes  in  his  newspaper  tub, 
Wherein  he  wallows,  gnashes  and  snuffs  plunder, 
And  yet  I  like  him  better  than  this  Ritchie, 
The  vaunted  genius  of  his  occupation, 
1  Firing  on  the  Chesapeake  Frigate. 


IRVING  AT  BUBB'S    TRIAL  43 

Who  like  Marat  learned  medicine  to  torture 
And  has  a  narrow  controversial  soul. 
This  city  rules  by  him  newspaper-mongers 
And  he  is  edited  by  Jefferson. 
'Tis  dissipation  of  belles  lettres  minds 
To  excel  in  these  midnight  exhalations. 
The  rainbow  'twixt  Newspaper  and  Letters 
Is  broke  in  mid  air ;  I'll  find  the  far  end ; 
It  may  be  long  or  never,  but  my  mind 
Shall  not  be  a  slave  driver's  with  my  quill, 
Nor  in  opinion-fact'ries  pewtered  out ! 

The  prosecution  is  the  President, 
Who  learned  his  passions  in  the  sects  of  France, 
Wrathful  for  liberty  that  in  Robespierre, 
The  smug  and  incorrupt,  destroyed  his  kind. 
Few  are  not  spoiled  whom  Europe  magnifies, 
Yet  is  our  politics  all  European,  — 
Philology  of  accusations  fetched 
To  plague  plain  stay-at-homes  like  Washington : 
Democrat,  Monarchist,  Aristocrat, — 
Words  mighty  in  the  foreign  tourists'  pride. 
The  name  that  bless'd  me  and  the  Chief  whose 

hand 
Was  raised  above  me  in  my  nurse's  arms 
Will  stand  with  Caesar's  when  these  tribunes  fade. 
He  never  would  have  scoured  the  coasts  for  Burr 
And  dragged  him  hither  through  so  many  States 
To  try  him  in  the  tyrant's  local  province. 
Indicted  by  his  cousin.     Not  ere  long 
This  slayer  did  preside  upon  the  trial 
Of  a  high  Justice  and  this  grand  juror 
Did  curse  the  Senate  which  would  not  convict  : 


44 


POEMS 


Now  Jeffrey's  circuit  moves  to  Richmond  town, 
But  yon  loose-jointed  Judge  has  in  his  orbs 
The  mighty  globe  and  Richmond  is  his  throne. 
Who  knows  what  Revolutions  may  rise  here  ? 
What  slavery  President  like  Burr  from  jail 
Be  brought  to  crave  his  bail  and  find  his  Portia  ? 
Then  this  Boi  Petion^  hunted  to  the  caves, 
Saved  from  the  executioner  by  wolves, 
Will  be  the  sign  of  mercy  shining  down. 

Petion's  Madame  Roland  there  I  see, 

Burr's  matron  daughter.     Blennerhassett's  wife 

Was  in  Queen  Theodosia's  silver  crown 

As  in  her  father's  sword  hilt.     Why  had  fate 

Mismated  so  ?     Burr  married  with  his  mother, 

Theodosia,  her  son,  and  that  one  with 

An  idiot.     Burr  needed  a  fine  woman 

And  made  her  of  his  child  but  on  illusions 

Wasted  their  substance.     'Tis  a  gypsy  court ! 

Jefferson's  comely  daughter  I  have  seen, 

Who  sought  to  be  a  nun  in  lawless  Paris. 

All  these  are  finer  women  than  in  France 

Around  the  condottieri  Emperor. 

Could  faction  run  its  length  these  ladies  might 

Go  to  a  guillotine.     Their  stay  is  Burr, 

Lex  scripta  and  the  plain  colonial  thought. 

In  climate  Liberty  refrigerates ; 
This  summer  heat  made  deadly  by  strong  drink 
And  carnal  by  the  Slavery  around  it, 
Will  soon  relinquish  to  the  Northern  star 
Direction,  as  the  constellations  do. 

In  some  day  not  too  far.  Literature 


OAK  HILL  45 

Will  sit  upon  the  chaos  of  these  presses 

And  soften  partisans  to  courtesy. 

Our  area  is  like  the  field  of  stars : 

The  more  they  be  the  light  is  more  diffused, 

The  wider  radiance  soothes  mankind  to  peace, 

And  woman's  softness,  paramount  at  night. 

Her  prejudices  drowsy  in  her  realm, 

Will  draw  the  soul  of  strife  to  love  and  rest. 

Yon  golden  West  will  govern  in  its  prime. 

With  mildness  known  not  to  old  colonies 

Ripped  from  the  civil  wars  and  Bible-cracked. 

Then  Liberty's  haranguers  need  not  scream ; 

'Twill  be  the  nature  of  the  fertile  sea 

Of  land  and  woodlands  and  the  snow-warmed  lakes ; 

Men  will  roam  free  and  sociable  as  cattle 

Which  in  their  increase  drive  the  bisons  back. 

Faint  in  that  mellow  sunset  may  appear 

Among  the  bars  of  music  one,  far  down. 

Leaning  on  earth :  the  Crime  of  Aaron  Burr. 


OAK  HILL 
1893 

Where  through  the  Hog  Back  Mountain  knots 
the  Goose  creek's  two  arms  wind 

Stands  on  a  knoll  a  portico  with  its  plain  house 
behind, 

A  portico  that  faces  South  in  Doric  columns  Hned. 

On  segment  arches  this  tall  porch  wide  as  the 
house   expands 


46  POEMS 

And  holds    a  Grecian  order  up  in  its  columnar 

hands, 
With  one  eye   in   its   pediment  winked   on   the 

templar's  lands. 

The  stiff,    square    house  with  chimneys  four  to 

lowly  wings  descends 
And  in  the  rear  it  has  its  door  as  if  for  humble 

friends ; 
In  front  o'er  double  drawing-rooms  that   portico 

portends. 

A  hall  that  clips  the  little  wings  the  two  square 

parlors  airs 
And  adds  a  state  solemnity  for  balls  and  feasts 

and  stairs 
But    to    that   rostrum   portico    the  whole    house 

gives  its  cares. 

Here,  one  would  think,  some    rustic   man    lived 

in  his  home,  snug,  slow. 
Until  he  had  a  public  call  to  come  in  front  and 

show 
And  then  he  showed  another  man  in  that  great 

portico. 

Monroe,  the  last  Virginia  chief,  here    spent   his 

funds  and  age, 
His  Northern  wife  died  in  the  jowl  of  this  sad 

hermitage. 
The  portico  his  former  hut  took  into  patronage. 

He  was  a  politician's  flower,  raised  from  a  common 
weed, 


OAK  HILL  47 

Fit  for  no  enterprise  in  life  but  following  to  lead: 
To  watch  the  great  and  imitate,  to  listen  and  suc- 
ceed. 

Mount  Vernon,  Monticello  and  Montpelier  tem- 
ples show  — 

Wide  land  and  Cincinnatian  rest,  sageness  and 
portico. 

So  all  he  had  into  Oak  Hill  put  President  Monroe. 

Some  few  weak  apprehensive  years  from  public 

pay's  release, 
He  took  the  only  office  left,  a  justice  of  the  peace, 
And  then  the  sheriff  took  his  peace  and  he  took 

his  surcease. 

As  in  this  lofty  portico  his  form  plebeian  bent 
He  wound  beneath  the  porticoes  of  every  high  event 
As  the  Virginia  creeper  scales  the  Doric  shaft's 
ascent. 

With  timid  men  he  passed  for  brash,  with  bold 
men  for  a  worm, 

He  was  a  soldier  on  the  staff  proved  by  his  uni- 
form ; 

He  set  the  lines  at  Bladensburg  and  braved  a 
thunderstorm. 

Confederate  Congressman,  he  bored  that  system 

to  its  doom ; 
Opposed  the  Constitution  since  some  other  State 

might  bloom ; 
But  when  his  Senator  was  dead  stepped  in  his 

shoes  and  room. 


48  POEMS 

There  bully  for  his  State's  cabal  he  set  domestic 

slur 
On  Hamilton,  above  the  State  the  golden  minister, 
But  bared  the  soldier's  pervious  place  to  single- 
combat  Burr. 

To  France  he  went  in  room  of  Burr  whom  he  had 
undermined 

And  with  the  bloody  Jacobin's  our  tender  streamers 
twined, 

Then  hurled  a  book  at  Washington,  for  voters  in- 
terlined. 

The  dying  chief  Virginia  stung  with  "  Governor 

Monroe," 
His  weakling  face  inspired  the  slaves  such  tool  to 

overthrow, 
Virginia  sent  him  back  to  France  annoyances  to 

sow. 

He  saw  upon  the  river  Seine  his  country's  steamer 

ride, 
With  Livingston's  and  Fulton's  fames  he  wrote 

his  name  beside, 
Abortive   treaties    ever   made    and   nowhere    did 

abide. 

But  as  the  Brahmins  may  revere  the  sacerdotal 
cow 

Virginians  ever  kept  him  place  beneath  their  feed- 
ing mow 

And  with  the  heifers  of  his  chief  he  drave  a  sub- 
soil plough ; 


OAK  HILL  49 

Measured  Virginia's  mites  beside  the  giants  of  his 
view,  — 

The  Nelsons,  Pitts  and  Bonapartes  the  world  of 
physics  grew,  — 

And  empire-hearted  men  at  home  by  later  knowl- 
edge knew. 

The  faction  feared  their  sharpened  tool,  his  hardier 

address, 
He  knew  their  differential  arts  and  shaken  selfish- 

ishness. 
And  practiced  on  a  wider  range  an  easier  success. 

He   ruled   the    land  by  men  of  stuff  in  all  his 

cabinet, 
Enlarged  the  state  and  in  array  its  weak  defenses 

set, 
But  plagued  himself  with  cavilling,  infirmity  and 

fret. 

High  policies  he  fought  against  and  called  them 

by  his  name. 
Looked  ever  on  where  he  might  lean  or,  failing, 

next  might  blame  ; 
When    every    opposition    ceased,    no    veneration 

came. 

Lamenting  powers  he  did  not  have  when  all  but 
he  so  willed. 

He  saw  not  slavery's  blighting  spread  while  free- 
dom throve  and  tilled 

And  Marshall's  genius  shone  abroad  to  strengthen 
and  to  build. 


50  POEMS 

Here   to    Oak  Hill   old   Lafayette  with    Quincy 

Adams  came 
On  wretched  roads  in  bankrupt  times  to  company 

but  tame, 
The  host  was  trouble-borrowing  and  lobbying  his 

claim. 

Unto  John  Adams'  frosty  child  Kentucky  passed 

the  key, 
Virginia's    nation-hearted    son     locked    out   her 

dynasty, 
And  force  with  lictors  came  behind,  —  the  sheik 

of  Tennessee. 

Perfect  the  classic  portico  takes  in  its  hollow  ken 
The  sheeplands  where,  in  warlike  times,  by  night 

rode  Mosby's  men. 
The  Bull  Run  mountains'  sapphire  blue  and  Little 

River's  glen. 

Toward  Potomac,  Goose  creek  falls  through  locks 

of  old  canals, 
Telling   of   public  spirit  spent  for  counties  and 

cabals ; 
The  grim  old  mills  at  Oatlands  grind  their  drowsy 

madrigals. 

Fertile  and  noble  rolls  the  land  and^  watered  like 
to  France, 

With  kine  and  horses  plentiful  and  sparse  inhabi- 
tants ; 

The  white  pike  road  beneath  the  ridge  shines  like 
a  flashing  lance. 


OAK  HILL  51 

But  naught  is  here  of  that  old  man  who  reared 

his  portico ; 
Richmond  that  made  him  has  his  bones  where 

James's  rapids  flow ; 
The  spirit  of  his  Northern  wife  the  Fortress  of 

Monroe. 

His  western  States  he  never  loved,  marched  o'er 

his  mountain's  bar, 
On  roads  he  vetoed,  to  his  forts  made  for  defensive 

war; 
Free  millions  flout  o'er  Africa  the  faint  Monrovian 

star. 

New  York,  Virginia's  conqueror,  received  him, 
debtor-spent ; 

Fourth  of  July,  his  dying  day,  scarce  felt  the 
slight  event ; 

No  man  has  read  his  manuscript  on  balanced  gov- 
ernment. 

His  jockey  son-in-law  awhile  Oak  Hill  inhabited, 
Defaulter  in  official  life  to  sanctuary  fled ; 
No  ghosts  are  in  the  portico ;  the  tedious  are  the 
dead. 

Contractors  city  horses  breed  in  Monroe's  stables, 

where 
He  demonstrated  country  hearts  of  cities    must 

beware ; 
Over  his  mutton  modern  men  his  waste  of  land 

unswear. 


52  POEMS 

The  sacrifice  he  did  not  try ;  the  means  he  did  not 

prove ; 
The  shiftless  motive  principle  that  only  seems  to 

move ; 
The  office-getting  for  itself :  these  bankiupt  power 

and  love. 

He  saw  the  people  as  they  were  by  mean  self- 
measurement, 
Rivals  his  mediocrity  preferring  for  descent, 
And  wore  the  nation's  patience  out  to  furious 
discontent. 

Few  pilgrims  come  to  see  his  shrine,  the  few  who 

come  less  know ; 
The  whip-poor-will's  inquiring  cry  is  answered  by 

Echo, 
Within  the  hollow  stories  of  the  pillared  portico. 

Pale  order!  to  neglected  lands  your  Greek  ex- 
pression give 

Of  Academic  genius  and  freedom  formative  ! 

So  perfect  stands  the  portico  its  spirit  still  must 
live. 


JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS'   DIARY 
1779-1848, 

Lad  !  I  overlap  thy  life  with  mine ; 

Art  thou  curious,  prying  and  revering  ? 

Lift  the  lid,  —  the  coffin  be  not  fearing ! 

Within  my  Koran  book  my  prophet's  bones  calcine. 


TO  EDMUND   C.    STED^fAN  53 

Three  score  and  ten  of  years  I  drew  bow  line 
And  shot  ni}'  arrows  into  friend  and  foe ; 
Gather  them  as  the  Indian  by  his  bow 
And  arrows  lies  I  Nothing  will  I  refine  ! 
What  for  the  day  seemed  true  the  sun  marked  so, 
And  before  night's  small  prayer  I  wrote  not  liber- 
tine. 
A  barbarous  age  encaged  me  for  its  king, 
Its  captive  eagle  silenced  by  its  vote. 
Each  night  I  pulled  a  feather  from  my  wing 
And  dipped  it  in  my  cage-chilled  blood  and  wrote. 
For  thine  eye,  boy,  did  I  in  slavery  snatch 
Moments  of  years  to  trace  the  dull  events : 
Judge  thou  my  book  when  thou  shalt  read  its  match 
Writ  by  another  of  thy  Presidents ! 

TO  EDMUND   C.    STEDMAN 

Thy  pipe  clear,  cogent,  summoning,  I  heard 

Like  the  long  locust's  triU,  when  I  was  young, 

Halting  but  not  dissonant  with  the  bird, 

A  louder  chanson  on  a  thrilling  tongue ; 

Current  occurrence  poetry  became 

In  thy  sweet  glottis  and  thou  didst  not  fear: 

I  list  thy  pibroch  after  years  the  same 

And  find  thee  sweeter  as  I  come  more  near. 

Thy  Muse  doth  balance  while  thy  wants  take  ramble 

On  Wall  Street's  deafening  and  deadly  way, 

Like  him  who  walked  the  wire  with  many  a  gambol, 

Along  the  foam  line  of  Niagara. 

Thy  foot  is  on  Apollo's  lyre-strimg  air ; 

I  know  where  thou  art  by  a  rainbow  there. 


64  POEMS 

E.  R.  T. 

APRIL  13,  1897  ^ 

Blind,  seeing,  dead :  good  night,  Elizabeth ! 
Thou  didst  not  see  and  slipped  on  holy  ground. 
Thy  sight  restored  thou  sawest  falsehood's  death 
And  owned  thy  slip  though  ever  bled  thy  wound. 
Death !  Thou  art  Saviour  to  all  women  found 
In  nature's  field !  Thou  writest  in  the  dust 
And  draw'st  them  to  thee  in  repentance  sound 
When  priests  and  congregations  stone  their  trust ! 
In  that  great  day  when  graves  give  up  and  must 
All  shames  be  owned,  matron !    Thou  wilt  be  wise 
Who  faced  the  world  and  out  by  it  was  thrust 
To  stand  with  Magdalen  in  Paradise  ; 
Aye  !  and  with  Mary  of  supernal  fame 
Whom  Heaven  o'ershadowed  ere  it  overcame. 

JOSHUA 

The  Shemite's  roving  eye  is  keen  from  his  tent, 
He  sees  the  obvious  and  speaks  sentiment ; 
His  nation  a  brood  under  Israel's  hem 
He  knew  but  one  city,  Jerusalem. 

Enter  the  Roman  with  world-wide  polity !  — 
*'  Believe  what  ye  will  but  be  subject  to  me !  " 
As  from  the  rushes  had  Moses  pedigree, 
Joshua,  the  straw-bom,  thought  in  poetry : 

"  Freer  this  sun  the  strangers'  helmets  flash, 
Happy  Israel  whose  creeds  no  longer  clash ! 

1  Totally  blind,  recovered  her  full  sight.     Died.  —  Report. 


JOSHUA  55 

Gentiles  we  hated  have  stricken  off  our  clogs, 
Nobler  are  mankind  than  the  harsh  synagogues  !  " 

That  subhmation  like  a  blowing  seed 
Fell  in  the  furrow  that  was  smoking  to  breed : 
Rome  had  oped  the  world  with  her  ploughshare  feet, 
Joshua  went  forth  and  sowed  it  with  bright  wheat. 

MoraUzingr  without  labor  is  disease. 
Catch-cure-workers  snare  themselves  in  mysteries. 
Agitation  agitates  sweet  sleep  away. 
Science  lay  not  with  the  Jew  nor  Joshua. 

The  ghost  tales  creep  in  the  blood  of  conquerors. 

A  sure  church  ever  toleration  abhors. 

Little  miracles  his  followers  must  see. 

And  Jove's  fatherhood  vouch  for  democracy. 

Superstitions  strove  and  his  girl  head  was  bowed, 
Tears  came  between  him  and  the  simple  crowd, 
Winds,  understood  not,  whispered  from  the  sky 
Imaginations  of  the  old  Genii. 

Youth  is  the  quickenmg,  age  the  mummifying, 
Youth  thinks  of  loving  and  age  thinks  of  dying : 
Joshua,  distempered,  coimted  life  a  loss, 
The  beauty  of  the  lilies  droops  at  his  cross. 

When  we  know  nothing  of  our  own  planet's  plan. 
Fancy  must  prophesy  and  priest  dream  for  man, 
Joshua  who  loved  the  Earth,  his  one  pet  bird, 
Never  to  his  singing  mate  has  since  said  word. 

Stubborn  idolatry  mistakes  all  it  can. 

Jew-named  Christians  burnt  alive  their  fellow-man. 


56  P0E3IS 

Science  with  miracles  to  shame  sorcery- 
Bent  to  the  Roman  priest  the  pagan-freed  knee. 

Japhet  in  the  West  took  Physics  for  his  mate 
And  she  nursed  him  like  the  wolf  the  twins  of  state, 
Walled  her  Europe  with  the  towers  that  suns  descry, 
Felt  her  hemispheres  of  breasts  the  globe's  augury. 

Arsenalled  her  arms  with  chemistry's  retorts, 
Made  old  Rome  her  polity,  chivalry  her  forts  ; 
States  gave  stability  to  tribes'  disarray : 
Europe  for  poetry  set  up  Joshua ; 

Fought  for  his  grave  and  his  peasantry  set  high, 
Put  his  brethren  in  its  shields  of  victory ; 
Joshua's  living  type  they  banished  and  slew : 
Europe  took  the  Jewish  and  enslaved  the  Jew. 

Wider  than  Joshua,  Spinoza  loved  Space, 

In  his  matter-loving  thought  all  worlds  had  grace  ; 

Socialistic  Joshuas  a  new  earth  drew 

But  the  church  of  Joshua  rejected  Jew. 

We  have  with  us  Joshua  perfectly  new 
In  the  juvenescence  of  each  sanguine  Jew, 
In  his  friendly  vehemence,  Shemite  to  brim, 
But  the  doors  of  Japhet's  race  are  shut  to  him. 

He,  in  Joshua's  delight,  hails  the  events, 
His  disbanded  nationhood  to  all  presents. 
Drives  his  golden  wedge  into  Japhet's  schism 
Profiting  honestly  by  his  optimism. 

Joshuas  arrogate  anarchistic  powers, 

Build  themselves  no  sepulchre  but  lie  in  ours; 


BALSTO:^  57 

Joshua,  pastoral,  preaches  and  roams, 
Turning  mobs  against  the  genius  of  homes ; 

Rails  at  society  that  taketh  providence 
As  the  roving  Arabs  hate  Yemen's  defense, 
Hates  the  riches  that  refine  and  in  us  dwell 
For  the  riches  that  o'erburden  Ishmael. 

Joshua  pushes  hard  as  if  earth  were  slow, 
And  he  imperium  in  imperio  ; 
Unto  him  as  Caesar's  coin  we  render  odds, 
But  refuse  to  his  assault  the  things  of  Gods. 

Joshua  never  sought  Kepler's  wonder  laws : 
Sentimental,  sensuous,  effect  and  cause 
Unto  him  were  platitudes :  genius  wild. 
He  is  reigning  and  will  reign,  the  little  child. 

RALSTON 

He  who  attempts  too  much  success 

And  frets  his  destiny, 
Shall  like  Napoleon  find  an  isle 

Or  Ralston  find  a  sea. 

Yet  in  the  loss  of  so  much  power 
The  generous  world  must  weep, 

As  when  some  battlemented  tower 
Falls  down  a  lofty  steep. 

Roll  ocean  on  the  golden  gate 

With  thrice  thy  usual  sound ! 
There's  nothing  left  of  mortal  state 

Like  him  that  thou  hast  drowned. 
1875. 


68  POEMS 

MEMMINGER'S  LIFE 

(SECRETARY  OF  CONFEDERATE   TREASURY) 

1875 

Flylng  from  Napoleon, 

Flpng  to  Calhoun, 
Little  Wurtembiirger ! 

'T  was  Caesar  to  Mahoun. 
To  one  you  were  a  conscript. 

Cipher  in  t" other's  eye  ; 
One  would  unify  you, 

One  would  nullify. 

O,  had  Carolina 

Heads  like  thine,  not  hot. 
She  had  weighed  the  iron 

Ere  she  fii-ed  the  shot ! 
All  her  waste  of  fury 

No  hero  left  to  her 
But  the  man  of  Jewry, 

Meniminger. 
1893. 

PALOS 

I  WAKE  at  Huelva ;  sunrise  shines 
On  Palos,  name  I  know  so  well 

Where  Rio  Tinto  from  its  mines 
Comes  on  to  join  the  Odiel. 

I  seek  the  quay  and  hire  my  boat 
Among  the  many  vessels  there 

And  down  the  tawny  river  float 
In  that  same  raw  Columbus  air, 


OF    THE 


UNIVERSITY 

Of 

-ALIFORH^ 


PALOS  59 

In  this  four  hundredth  happy  spring, 
Since  in  this  port  his  sail  he  furled 

Who,  like  yon  coots  on  fluttering  wing 
Low  flymg,  dipped  them  down  the  world. 

Amidst  his  scenes  I  sit  in  awe 

Hushed  by  my  country's  cradle  story 

And  watch  the  hump  of  Rabida 
Draw  nearer  on  its  promontory. 

The  scaffolds  round  the  shaft  just  raising 
To  him,  I  thmk  one  more  depiction 

By  painters,  after  time  amazmg. 
Of  Jesus  raised  for  crucifixion. 

And  as  I  climb  the  Prior's  height 

Where  Christus  paused  in  this  far  region 

His  globe  soul  half  eclipsed  in  night 
I  feel  a  natural  religion. 

Yon  only  window  well  I  mark 

Above  the  postern  where  his  hand 

Fray  Perez  waved,  as  from  the  ark. 
To  take  the  dove  in  brinofingr  land. 

And  where  the  travellers  entered  twain 
I  leave  behind  all  harsh  complaints, 

One  gentle  priest  then  lived  in  Spain 
Whom  Science  ranks  among  her  saints. 

The  cool  patios  they're  restoring, 

The  vaults  uptorn,  the  monks'  small  cells, 

The  Saviour  nailed  for  his  adoring. 
The  convent  jail,  the  Moorish  wells, 


60  POEMS 

The  stable  like  the  inn's  for  Mary, 
The  loggia  that  o'erharigs  the  sea, 

I  thread  as  in  some  cave  of  faer}', 
Up  to  the  Prior's  library. 

Where  books  of  dread  by  pagans  written 
But  lamplight  threw  on  that  dark  sea 

And  through  the  windows  redly  litten 
The  sandalled  monks  spied  sorcery. 

But  Palos  tars,  accused  of  robbing, 
Tested  that  stranger  s  serious  worth, 

Her  doctor  felt  a  twin  world  throbbing 
And  helped  the  young  idea  forth. 

Off  to  the  court  the  country  pastor 
Made  the  first  voyage,  tonsure-curled, 

And  on  a  donkey,  like  his  master, 
Rode  into  town  to  save  a  world. 

They  thank  him  for  the  invitation 
And  send  their  Notary  right  about 

And  fine  poor  Palos  from  the  nation, 
To  take  the  expedition  out. 

For  that,  O  Palos !  I  am  risking 
(No  saddle  and  no  stirrup  mine) 

This  ride  and  were  my  mare  a-frisking 
I  might  leave  thee  my  broken  chine. 

The  houseless  road  with  flowers  is  sprinkled, 
The  pinegroves  moan,  low  flaps  a  stork, 

I  see  old  ocean's  head  unwrinkled 
Beyond  the  sea  strand's  trees  of  cork. 


PAL  OS  61 

And  soldiers  guard  lest  thieves  assail  us 
The  ancient  road  on  Tarshish  strand : 

There  is  more  danger  still  by  Palos 
Than  in  the  wide  Columbian  land. 

This  is  not  Palos,  these  wine  caverns 
Backed  into  hillocks  with  low  walls  ! 

Where  be  the  port,  the  sailors'  taverns. 
The  smell  of  tar,  the  boatswains'  calls  ? 

This  is  some  farmers'  hameau  stranded 
High  up  the  land ;  the  old  chuich  tower 

In  a  high  gravel  pit  upstanded 

Just  peeping  o'er  this  many  an  hour. 

As  when  the  Norman  pirates  entered 
The  Moorish  peace  of  Cadiz  bay 

And  in  this  mosque  the  learned  centred 
Round  Almegist  and  Algebra. 

The  distant  age  of  printing-paper 

Found  Ismail's  star  o'er  Spain  senescent, 

They  might  have  crossed  the  sea  by  vapor 
And  on  the  Indies  put  the  crescent. 

Some  Koran  ever  there  to  read  is 

Whose  gibberish  Geber's  lore  may  throttle ; 
Mahomet  bullies  Archimedes 

And  Torquemada,  Aristotle. 

With  me  the  problem  now  is  bitter, 

How  to  get  off  this  Rozinante 
And  not  to  make  all  Palos  titter. 

Which  crowds  to  see  this  Yankee  ••'  ant€." 


62  POEMS 

And  like  Columbus'  standing  eggs, 
To  save  my  shell  requires  address ; 

They  bring  a  chair ;  I  bless  its  legs : 
Something  in  Palos  I  must  bless. 

I  disapprove  those  eyes  of  her 

Who  from  one  trellised  yard  grimaces 

And  on  my  country  puts  the  slur, 
That  of  one  blood  are  all  man-races  : 

"Was  she  not  here,  ancient  of  species, 

When  up  the  streets  like  sharks  with  fins  on 

The  sailors  all  had  Beatriches, 

And  Peter's  cock  crowed  thrice  at  Pinzon  ? 

Let  realisms  not  displease  us  ! 

Old  Niebla  jail :  memento  mori ! 
One  thief  went  in  to  heaven  with  Jesus, 

And  fifty  thieves  to  Salvadore  ! 

Diogenes  and  cynics  bicker 
On  honest  men  alone  to  settle, 

The  wise  man  asks,  whose  blood  is  thicker, 
"  Is  this  my  tool,  a  tool  of  mettle  ?  " 

The  Palos  people  cease  to  chatter : 

All  gravity  they  hear  me  say, 
"  America  was  found  by  matter ! 

And  matter  was  America." 

With  this  I  scatter  silver  shekels 

(And  while  they  scramble  get  me  gone) 

To  various  admirals  in  freckles,  — 
And,  no  doubt,  of  Columbian  spawn. 


PALOS  63 

"  Palos,  the  Marshy  "  one  stone  lane 

Drops  to  its  port ;  the  main  street  forks 

To  Moguer  where  they  sell  their  grain 
And  olive  oil  and  fungus  corks. 

There  in  the  forks  his  farmhouse  stands, 
Good  Pinzon's,  with  arched  gate  and  walls ; 

He  left  a  substance  for  dreamlands, 
Nor  parleyed  for  Viceregal  halls. 

I  like  his  life  because  'tis  short, 
He  gives  to  Palos  fame  its  own, 

He  made  Columbus  no  retort 

Nor  troubled  history  with  a  moan. 

And  later,  stout  Iberian  men. 
From  Pinzon's  spirit  did  absorb, 

Nunez  who  gazed  from  Darien, 
Magellan,  circler  of  the  orb. 

Palos  was  naught  but  situation 

Beyond  the  straits,  a  nook  unfriended 

"Where  no  adjacent  sjjying  nation 

Might  hear  its  wail  of  doom,  world-ended. 

That  wail  I  hear  in  Palos  church : 
"  Mary !  O  Mother !  Slay  this  devil ! 

This  crow  who  on  our  cross  does  perch 
And  picks  our  eyes  out  for  his  revel, 

"  Picks  son  and  husband,  lover,  brother. 
And  sails  to  ports  that  never  were  : 

Thou  ait;  our  friend,  God's  virgin  mother ! 
O  Venus  !  have  us  in  thy  care  !  " 


64  POEMS 

Prayer  volatile  as  bird  or  bee  is 

And  man  more  oft  than  Gods  hath  bended, — 
Could  wooden  women  halt  ideas 

Columbus  in  this  church  had  ended. 

So  prayed  that  day  afflicted  creatures, 
Against  the  good  luck  to  them  blown. 

They  clawed  their  wooden  virgin's  features, 
And  seldom  since  has  she  been  shown ; 

To  me  they  fetch  her  from  a  closet, 
A  human  bowsprit  full  of  scars, 

With  once  blue  eyes  and  cheeks  of  roset. 
Like  Irish  wives  of  Palos  tars. 

So  in  Phoenicia's  golden  crisis. 

When  Hiram's  ships  would  counter  truly. 
The  Tyrian  woman  plead  to  Isis 

And  stopped  his  galleons  short  of  Thul^. 

The  men  of  Thul^  were  not  craven, 
They  wintered  on  the  western  shore, 

But  unreturning  as  the  raven, 
Vineland,  Red  Eric  saw  no  more. 

The  plain  white  church  with  chapels  cool 
And  floor  of  tile  and  altar  fret 

That  day  became  an  urchins'  school 
To  teach  the  Pope  his  alphabet. 

And  in  its  pulpit  as  I  stand, 

The  same  as  in  that  day's  suspense, 

I  feel  the  strength  of  Ferdinand 
And  government's  beneficence. 


PAL  OS  65 

My  country  is  like  Spain  anon, 

In  chivalry's  reunion  sure, 
Castile  is  one  with  Aragon 

And  in  Granada  still  the  Moor. 

Not  hard  far-off  adventures  be, 

But  hard  it  is  not  to  oppress : 
Drive  not  the  Moors  to  Barbary 

And  have  barbarian  happiness  ! 

And  hark !  ye  priests,  for  signs  who  search 
And  pulpits  close  to  week  day  rule : 

Think  how  Columbus  of  this  church 
Made  heaven's  earthy  vestibule ! 

Loquacious  Jews  whose  God  began  it, 
Whose  victim  died  for  his  deep  wit, 

Did  your  Messiah  to  our  planet 
Know  that  he  trod  but  half  of  it  ? 

That  this,  the  only  world  he  treasured. 

For  it  dissolved  his  Trinity  — 
Was  like  the  smallest  orange  measured 

In  the  Arcana's  orangery  ?  — 

Was  less  in  night's  cerulean  bosk. 
Than  one  low  arch  amid  the  grove 

Of  arch  on  arch  in  that  vast  mosque 
The  Dryads  at  Cordova  love  ? 

A  preacher's  blood  I  feel  in  me. 

In  Palos  pulpit  where  I  stand. 
To  pound  its  iron  tracery, 

Like  Goetz,  who  wore  the  iron  hand. 


Of   Thj 

>^ 'DIVERS/ 

or 


66  POEMS 

And  as  that  lone  Italian  drave, 
Into  the  Palos  mind  of  murk 

The  flash  light  of  the  western  wave, 
I  am  Columbus'  handiwork. 


Ocean  its  revelations  clear 

Made  not  to  Arab,  Jew  or  Greek,  — 
The  drifting  things  from  some  near  sphere 

That  of  a  human  neighbor  speak. 

One  notched  chip,  one  rotten  apple. 
That  in  earth's  faithful  currents  swum. 

Did  more  the  brother  worlds  to  grapple 
Than  all  the  prayers  of  Christendom. 

Long  as  he  took  the  wheel  to  plan,  — 
Eternal  surface  smooth  and  clear, — 

Came  to  the  rutted  mind  of  man 
The  comprehension  of  the  sphere ; 

Slowly  it  passed  from  Greek  to  Goth 
And  to  the  wisest  seemed  a  fact ; 

A  sailor  groped  in  ocean's  froth 
And  shaped  the  problem  to  an  act. 

For  no  new  world  Columbus  sought ; 

Embargoed  Ind  he  hoped  to  clutch  ; 
His  aptness  grasped  the  spheroid  thought 

And  knew  extremes  did  somewhere  touch. 

There  is  a  mean  amidst  extremes, 
There  is  a  half-way  happiness  ; 

Between  the  continents  he  dreams 
The  lost  Atlantis  lay  to  bless. 


PALOS  6T 

As  in  a  tube  a  hyacinth, 

Flowered  knowledge  in  the  steel-clad  camp : 
Religion  was  a  labyrinth 

But  science  was  a  kindling  lamp. 

Man's  bony  frame  of  shadows  sick 
Beat  starved  against  his  prison  bars, 

The  owl-bright  eye  of  Copernik 

Was  out  by  night  to  catch  the  stars. 

In  the  Italian  schools  the  Moor, 

Though  beat  by  these  new  monarchies, 

Hung  on  the  lance  of  Avenzoar 
The  lamp  of  old  Maimonides. 

And  in  the  minds  of  gentlemen 

There  came  a  crisis  and  a  jar. 
As  in  the  mines  of  Almaden 

Quicksilver  moves  in  cinnabar. 

His  iron  casque  had  pinched  the  Don : 
Eight  hundred  years  he  fought  the  Moor. 

The  bastard  Ime  of  Aragon 
Taught  Barcelona  literature. 

From  those  Sicilian  vesper  bells, 
That  Popes  and  poetry  enticed, 

Down  where  Amalfi's  infidels 

The  loadstone  compass  left  to  Christ, 

Letters  made  merchants  of  the  Jews, 
And  sharpened  the  Italian  scent. 

But  Letters  only,  that  refuse 

Bright  Physics'  hght,  are  sentiment. 


68  POEMS 

Physics  and  martial  music  came 
To  Europe  in  the  Turkman's  hand : 

Constantinople's  dying  flame 
Lighted  the  birth  of  Ferdinand 

And  hushed  the  soft  Petrarchian  pipes 
And  broke  the  Minnesinger's  trance 

And  Printing  flew  her  beacon  types 
Along  the  walled  towns  of  the  Hanse. 

Physics  her  apparatus  played 

As  in  some  school  for  grown-up  boys 

And  in  the  Nuremberger's  trade 

The  Globe  appeared  among  his  toys. 

Thus  geometric  as  the  Moor, 
Perforce,  his  propositions  lined, 

Learning  descended  to  the  poor 

And  taught  her  objects  to  the  blind. 

'Twas  thus  the  Genoese  was  taught. 
On  some  small  isle  by  Exile's  sea ; 

A  new  Herodotus  was  wrought 
To  Poetry's  audacity. 

Upon  King  Joao's  smirk  he  waits 

Who  would  with  halfpence  fame  attain,- 

Small  are  the  souls  of  little  States ! 
He  turned  him  to  United  Spain. 

And  Salamanca's  monks  did  snub 

The  noblest  issue  ever  seen. 
He  was  no  member  of  a  club 

Nor  author  in  a  magazine ; 


PALOS  69 

Not  frittered  into  piecemeal  things 
Are  minds  of  comprehensive  ends, 

He  ranked  his  genius  with  kings 

And  found  them  in  his  simple  friends. 

He  had  a  clean,  transparent  mind 
One  wick  of  truth  could  all  illume, 

That  lighted  friendship  in  his  kind 
And  scented  it  with  his  perfume. 

They  thought  him  wholesome  more  than  right ; 

He  had  the  good  in  Adam's  fall ; 
He  knew  one  thing  with  all  his  might 

And  gods  forbid  he  knew  it  all ! 

Ye  Palos  gentles !  in  the  land 

That  by  your  help  Columbus  found, 

Althoucrh  his  love  was  contraband 

His  mind's  descendants  there  abound : 

Men  who  at  Pavia  learned  not  long 
Nor  wranglers  were  in  smug  debates 

But  in  the  realm  of  physics  strong 
Columbian  blessings  left  on  States. 

Palos  !  as  friends  of  old  acquaint, 
Ne'er  may  your  Spain  in  her  eclipse 

Match  Compostello's  burly  saint 
Against  Columbia's  battleships! 

Or  ye  may  find  your  samt's  cuirass 
Fade  like  the  Ottoman's  lone  moon 

And  Archimedes'  burning  glass 
Be  yonder  sun  of  afternoon  ! 


70  POEMS 

Columbus  turned  the  missal's  page : 
But  love  of  slu-ines  shall  I  condemn 

Who  make  to  Palos  pilgrimage 
As  he  would  see  Jerusalem  ? 

From  superstition  half  he  woked 

Who  gazed  on  Physics'  grand  demesne 

As  through  the  church  tower  I  am  poked 
To  see  Algarve's  vision  scene. 

Beyond  her  tile  roofs'  wrinkled  net, 
Skin  of  her  shrivelled  usufructs, 

On  Huelva,  Palos'  look  is  set 

Flashing  her  Roman  aqueducts,  — 

Huelva  !  Whose  villas  sparkle  white 
Above  her  port  of  copper  mesh 

Like  the  pomegranate's  seeds  of  light 
Dotting  its  lush  and  purple  flesh. 

There  friar  Bacon's  fire  retort 

Melts  wealth  from  ore  and  Spanish  dross 
With  British  ships  crowds  Huelva's  port  ; 

Palos  has  nothing  but  the  cross. 

Nature  here  noble,  man  ungrown, 
The  tawny  rivers  at  the  flood 

O'erflow  and  like  the  Amazon 

Their  lambent  boundary  stain  with  mud. 

The  sailor  men  of  Palos  hire 

Like  Indians  in  the  copper  mines  ; 

Her  strand  is  nought  but  empty  mire 
Where  hke  one  shell  my  shallop  shines. 


PALOS  71 

But  reverent  I  look  upon 

The  sailor-scrivener's  index  page, 

As  piously  a  preacher's  son 

Visits  his  youth's  old  parsonage 

And  thinks  how  by  Gennesaret 
All  night  disciples  nothing  waft 

While  on  this  farther  side  their  net 

Was  cast  and  drew  the  mighty  draught. 


The  port's  lane  echoes  to  my  tread 

Like  sounds  from  ocean's  chambered  shells ; 

Towns  live  their  period  like  the  dead. 
And  never  wake  by  miracles. 

Palos !  I  leave  thee  with  a  sigh 

Gravely  and  sweet  thou  treated  me ; 

Across  the  drowned  marsh  I  fly 
As  o'er  the  Saragossa  sea. 

I  feel  that  space  has  worlds  to  find 
Unknown  on  Matter's  universe, 

No  waterspouts  are  in  the  mind 
No  tyrants  chain  discoverers. 

One  prayer  will  be  never  misspoken, 

It  needs  no  tinkling  holy  bell, 
It  is  the  Public  Spirit's  token 

To  wish  all  things  constructive  well. 

Skyward  our  Argonautic  prow 

Turns  Hke  the  thunder-slayer's  Kite  ; 

The  human  Mind  is  Palos  now, 
Its  expeditions  infinite. 


72  POEMS 

As  'twixt  the  stars  lost  monads  scatter, 
And  pollen  floats  from  sphere  to  sphere, 

We  shall  see  God,  pervasive  Matter, 
That  hath  in  motion  just  career. 


IN  GROTE'S  GREECE 

From  folks  insipid  and  unfeeling 
Came  one  who  needed  no  annealing. 
Love  childless  kept  him  from  congealing. 

He  lived  beside  his  money-lending. 
Learning  his  concubine  and  vending 
All  day,  he  read  at  night's  descending. 

His  favorite  work  was  Say  on  Barter, 
He  was  Republican,  no  martyr. 
And  varicosely  spurned  a  garter. 

A  Benthamite,  old  ills  he  flouted 

Till  came  the  chance  and  then  he  doubted ; 

He  hated  slavery  till  'twas  routed. 

He  would  the  ballot  give  the  many 

Until  too  many,  then  not  any. 

And  in  the  pound  stuck  at  the  penny. 

But  o'er  this  money  groat's  existence 
The  purple  Greece  shone  in  from  distance 
And  gave  his  vagaries  consistence. 

Like  old  Mortality  a  tintster, 
Among  the  marbles  in  the  Minster 
They  put  away  this  withered  spinster. 


GOVEBNOR   WILLIAM  FBANKLIX      73 

JEFFERSON 

Why  does  this  politician  keep 

The  power  a  century  to  stir? 
In  war  so  weak,  in  peace  so  deep 

And  feminine  in  character  ? 
Suspicious  of  his  fellow-chiefs, 

Insinuating  and  apart 
And  di'opping  his  posthumous  leafs 

The  foUage  of  a  withered  heart  ? 
Is  it  because,  when  Virtue  feared 

Science  would  be  Religion's  wraith, 
He  took  the  prophets  by  the  beard 

And  cheered  the  ever-living  faith  ? 
And  in  his  century's  slave  kiosk, 

Forced  for  the  Moors  himself  to  brand. 
Stood  like  Averroes  by  the  mosque 

With  Aristotle  in  his  hand  ? 


GOVERNOR   WILLIAM   FRANKLIN 

1784 
My  father's  policy  is  %vade. 

He  manages  the  selfish  town, 
Vindictive,  placid  is  his  pride. 

Pie  has  the  pride  of  pulling  down ; 
My  dull  Lords  Penn,  King  George,  the  clouds,  — 

I've  seen  him  draw  them  from  their  height ; 
His  gainful  wisdom  tickles  crowds, 

His  lever  is  his  paper  kite. 

I  know  my  mother's  humble  place ; 
A  vassal  ship  she  came  upon, 


74  POEMS 

The  pilgrim  mother  of  his  race  ; 

I  am  his  German  leman's  son, 
To  him,  to  her,  I  owe  the  span 

Of  life's  delightful  ecstacy. 
Yet  when  he  talks  the  Rights  of  Man 

I  feel  a  bastard's  injury. 

Docile  to  him  in  filial  fear, 

Born  to  his  foot,  like  Mercury's  wing, 
Obedience  gave  me  a  career, 

I  rose  above  him  with  his  king; 
His  conscience  pricked  him  at  my  height, 

My  subjects  might  his  virtue  mock : 
As  when  a  boy  I  flew  his  kite 

And  down  the  cord  he  felt  the  shock. 

England  than  Franklin  more  humane 

Raised  me  to  honor's  pedigree, 
A  lady  by  my  rank  was  lain 

And  took  my  spurious  son  with  me ; 
His  grandsire's  tact  my  offspring  won  — 

I  kept  my  oath  and  wrecked  my  house  - 
The  Revolution  took  my  son, 

I  wail  a  broken-hearted  spouse ! 

Isaac  beneath  his  father's  knife 

Was  not  more  still  than  I  obey, 
Honoring  him  who  gave  me  life 

And  all  that  bless'd  it  lured  away : 
My  native  land  for  which  I  fought. 

The  love  domestic  that  endears. 
God  spare  me  thy  rewarding  thought, 

I  must  live  long  as  father's  years  !  ^ 

^  Their  united  ages  were  168  years. 


AT  AYB  75 

AT   AYR 

There  are  no  towers  like  Melrose 

About  the  land  of  Ayr, 
But  all  the  morning  gates  unclose 

To  who  goes  pilgrim  there; 
No  Abbotsford  demands  largess. 

Nor  money-warders  prance, 
To  show  the  poet  of  success 

And  banker  in  romance. 

But  as  the  little  towns  of  Burns 

Their  names  familiar  say, 
The  stranger  to  the  native  turns 

And  smiles  between  them  play ; 
A  social  glee  like  Bobby's  rhymes 

In  eye  and  heart  prevails, 
As  when  in  Canterbury  times 

Sly  Chaucer  told  his  tales ; 

Till  Ayr  its  flat,  wide  street  begins 

And  midst  his  haunts  we  stand 
Who  made  its  humble  brigs  and  inns 

Like  scenes  in  Holy  land 
And  he  who  water  turned  to  wine, 

And  hved  not  half  his  span, 
Lies  in  the  Scottish  Palestine 

The  glorious  Son  of  Alan. 

We  drink  his  tankard  full  of  ale 

And  toast  him  prodigal 
As  if  it  were  the  Holy  Grail 

Ourself  Knight  Parsafal 


76 '  POEMS 

For  that  wherever  life  was  sad 

Or  self-oppression  ruled 
He  made  the  hovel-hearted  glad 

The  dying  firelog  Yuled. 

His  spirit  was  the  gale  that  blows 

Across  the  Irish  sea, 
Witli  independence  to  oppose 

And  voice  of  liberty, 
The  cattle  feel  it  in  their  hair 

It  cools  the  ploughman's  noon 
And  blooms  the  thistle  and  the  tare 

Along  the  banks  of  Doon. 

Doon's  crystal  slide  on  pebbly  floor 

In  many  a  stream  we  find 
But  not  the  poet  peeping  o'er 

With  his  swift,  minnoNvy  mind : 
The  mind  that  poises,  flashes,  falls, 

With  instant  instincts  rife. 
And  prisoned  in  by  river  walls 

Reflects  and  loses  life. 

They  tire  like  Gods  who  would  create, 

They  sublimate  their  hour, 
Life's  quickening  to  illustrate 

Drains  every  vital  power ; 
In  zenith  like  the  laboring  bee 

By  beauty's  regent  charmed, 
They  from  a  moment's  jubilee 

Drop  to  the  earth  deformed. 

Gorged  on  green  leaves  the  silkworm  weaves 
His  nature  earthy,  fine ; 


AT  ATB  77 

Beauty  and  health  are  poet's  leaves, 

He  needs  good  meat  and  wine  ; 
Grudge  not  his  sweets  who  drink  them  up ! 

Thy  nectar  was  his  soul ; 
His  Highland  Mary  one  day's  cup, 

And  Jean  Armour  his  bowl. 

His  butts  they  were  the  stiff  and  smirk. 

His  sinners  sham  and  cant, 
He  railed  like  Jesus  at  the  Kirk 

And  flogged  the  Covenant ; 
John  Knox  so  plied  on  faith  his  thong. 

Burns  went  to  Luther's  school,  — 
Who  loved  not  woman,  wine  and  song 

Was  all  his  life  a  fool. 

Wide  as  our  British  race  his  wand 

To  conjure  formalism ; 
The  young  world  charm  from  false  despond 

And  flout  the  catechism ; 
Kirk  Alloway's  a  ruin  dull, 

Its  windows  gaping  niches. 
Except  when  Tam  o'  Shanter's  full 

And  sees  it  full  of  witches. 

Great  babe  !  who  haled  thy  Scottish  sect 

And  put  its  saints  thy  debtors, 
And  made  thy  wayside  dialect 

A  language  of  belles  lettres  ! 
I  do  not  kneel  but  bow  thy  due, 

Ent'ring  thy  hut's  low  portal : 
The  unsevere  see  Nature  through. 

The  joyous  troll  immortal. 


78  POEMS 

TRAVELERS'   REST 

(HOUSE    OF    GEN.    HORATIO    GATES) 

1781 
Mrs.  Gates:    Well!    Here,  in  one  county,  are 
four  of  ye  of  mark, 
Retired   for  public    reasons :    Gates,   Stephens, 

Lee  and  Darke ; 
WhUe  poor  Dan  Morgan,  teamster,  and  Battle- 
town's  bully. 
Will  get  the  county's  ballot  before  the  best  of 

ye. 

Gen.  Gates  :    A  natural  soldier,  Mrs.  Gates,  his 
rank  well  won. 
As  great  in  valor  as  in  caution,  Washington. 
Mrs.  Gates:   Pity  your  caution  hadn't    seen  to 
this  day's  work. 
When  you  and  Congress  fought  him  so,  close 

by  at  York ! 
He's  put  Cornwallis    in  a  coop  at   Yorktown 
three. 
Gen.  Gates  :  I  hope  we'll  hear  this  night,  my 

dear,  of  a  great  victory ! 
Mrs.  Gates  :    Then  you've  come  down,  to  wish 

that  much  for  Washington  — 
Gen.  Gates  :   I  see  all  things  more  humbly  since 

we  lost  our  son. 
Mrs.  Gates  :    Now,  father,  sit  thee  down !  take 
my  wine-cellar  key ! 
I  said  I  wouldn't  open  it,  but  will,  for  thee. 
Hark!   there's  the  pack  of  General  Lee:  that 
key  give  back ! 


TBAVELEBS'   BEST  79 

Gen.  Gates  :  Darling,  his  sword  is  broken,  too. 

Give  him  some  sack  ! 
Mrs.    Gates  :  Your  -worst  adviser,  General  Gates, 
since  that  Conway 
And  drunken  AVUkinson  who  made  you  such, 
repay. 
Gen.  Gates  :    Mary,  he  is  my  oldest  friend  since 
Indian  frays : 
He  has  no  Mary  Valence  in  his  dark'ning  days. 
Mrs.  Gates  :  I'll  give  him  no  Madeira.    A  julep 
will  do  — 

(  Cren.  Charles  Lee  enters :  pacTc  of  hounds  hays.') 

Gen.  Lee  :  There's  nothing  like  a  julep,  Madame, 
made  by  you ! 
Well,  drink  Horatio  I  to  the  French.     The  deed 
is  done. 
Gen.  Gates:    Let's    toast   Virginians   first,    old 

friend  !  To  Washington  ! 
Gen.  Lee  :    Ne'er  to  that  mediocrity  I'll  bend  my 

knee  ! 
Mrs.  Gates  :    'Tis  all  the  greater  done  by  Medi- 
ocrity ! 
Is  Yorktown  taken  ? 
Gen.  Lee  :  That's  the  news  to  Charlestown  come. 
The  men  are  drunk,  the  women  dance,  the  boys 

they  drum. 
I  rode  from  Cherry  tavern  here  to  tell  you  first, 
Though  Mistress  Dun,  at  Prato  Rio,  cooled  my 
thirst. 
Mrs.  Gates  :  Madeira  it  shall  be  for  our  country 
is  free. 


80  POEMS 

Ye  victors  in  the  past !  huzza  this  victory ! 
When  you,  Gates,  took  Burgoyne  there  was  lost 

Brandywine, 
But  Washington  sent  cheer  to  the  New  Eng- 
land line : 
'Tis  turn  and  turn  about  — 
Gen.  Lee  :  I'll  see  him  damned  before  — 

Mks.  Gates  :    Peter,  bring  back  the  key  of  the 

wine-cellar  door ! 
Gen.  Lee  :    Halt !    Here's   to  us   Commanders  ! 
let  us  all  drink  hard  I 
Washington,  and  Lee,  and  Gates,  and  old  Arte- 
mas  Ward ! 
Mrs.  Gates  :  Now  add  your  engineer,  my  gallant 
Polish  beau. 
Who  drew  the  lines  around  your  foes,  Kosciusko  ! 
He  lay  in  Travelers'  Rest,  which  the  wounded 

enjoy,  — 
They  all  could  live  but  him,  my  dear,  my  only 
boy! 
Gen.  Lee:   Lady    Gates,    your    charity    to    the 
Continental  line 
Will  make  you  and  your  son  the  Family  Divine. 
I  have  no  wife  nor  child  and  I  live  with  my 
dogs  — 
Mrs.  Gates  :  With  dogs,  in  tubs  or  ruins,  lived 

all  demagogues ! 
Gen.  Lee  :  And  Jezebel  also !     Your  Madeira  may 
be  good 
But  you  let  it  stand  so  long  it  tastes  bitterwood. 
Gen.    Gates:    Mary,   let's   make   a    night!    we 
beaten  men  and  thee : 


TEAVELEBS'   REST  81 

'Tis  our  duty  to  get  tipsy :  give  me  the  key ! 
There  !    stingy  puss.     Treat,  the  last  time,  the 

Gates  cabal! 
Come,  bring  the  lantern,    Lee  I    and    smell    of 

Portugal  I 

(^Uxit  Gates  and  Lee.") 

Mrs.  Gates:  They  love  each  other,  dear,  poor 
men  of  Braddock's  fight ! 

Girls !  light  the  banquet  fire  and  set  them  out 
a  bite  I 

I  think  Horatio  looks  pale :  he  loved  his  son. 

Now  in  his  grief  I'll  have  him  write  to 
"Washington. 

Husband  lived  lonely  once  as  Lee  till  I  came 
West 

And  tried  to  make  him  happy  in  his  Travelers' 
Rest. 

How  he  did  farm !  Poor  ofiicers  of  England's 
line ! 

They  do  their  best.    But  Lee  is  such  a  libertine  ! 

Till  he  came  here  my  husband  was  aye  com- 
plaisant. 

And  General  Washington  chose  liim  for  Ad- 
jutant: 

Gates  left  alone  is  Washington:  Lee  comes 
between. 

He  thinks  so  many  things  and  husband's  so 
serene. 

Perhaps  we're  punished  for  our  Saratoga  pride. 

The  laurels  turned  to  willows  and  our  dear 
boy  died. 


82  POEMS 

He  loves  tliis  country  and  his  soldiers  Gates 

respect : 
If  not  the  first  commander,  be  the  first  subject ! 

(^Reenter  Crates  and  Lee  with  bottles.^ 

Gen.   Lee  :  '  Subject  ? '    Shame,    Madame  !      And 
shall  we  so  re-gorge 
That  after  George  the  Third  we  want  another 
George  ? 
Mrs.  Gates  :  At  least    four    kings  you've  had : 
two  Georges,  Stanislow, 
Don  Joseph,  debauchee^  but  you  like  not  kings 

now. 
At  Poniatowski's  table  volunteer  you  sat : 
He  gave  you  no  command :  but  our   Congress 
did  that ! 
Gen.   Lee:    Madame    as    Tragedy  is    Queen   of 

every  feast. 
Mrs.  Gates.    You    had  been   a   better   man    if 

married  by  some  priest. 
Gen.  Gates:    Now,  wife  and  friend,  be  merry  I 
We  conquer  in  age  : 
Think  of  your  friend    Burgoyne,    and    of    my 

friend.  Gage ! 
We  both  are  seniors,  neighbor,  of  Washington : 
He  is  only  forty-nine,  though  the  war  is  done. 
To-day  his  name  is  royal  and  we  cannot  pluck 
The  baton  from  his  glory  by  calling  it  luck. 
Mrs.  Gates  :  Eat  a  bit.     The   pheasant's    cold ; 
the  mutton's  better. 
{TJiey  sit.     "  Yelp  I  yelp  /"  from  the  cellar.') 
You  careless  men  the  pork-house  door  have  left  — 


TBAVELEBS'    BEST  83 

Gen.  Lee  :  My  setter ! 

(JDog  with  meat  rushes  through  hallJ) 

She'll  drive  me  out  with  my  pack! 
Gen.  Gates  :  I  thought  of  old  Nace 

Who  robbed  that  cellar  and  was  hanged.     I  see 

his  face. 
He  earned  all  he  stole;  his  price  they  paid  to 

me 
I  shall  give  with  interest  to  the  slaves  I  free. 

(^Mrs.  Gates  returns.) 

Gen.  Lee  :  Chicken  heart ! 

Mrs.  Gates:  Must  we  live  with  your  dogs  and 

your  strife  ? 
Gen.  Lee:    Sweetheart,  take  my  dogs  and  you 
take  my  only  wife. 
I  sent  some  quail  to  you  and  my  dog  stole  but 

one. 
I  always  think  of  Mary  Gates  when  I  do  gun. 
Gen.  Gates  :  For  this  wine  Mary's   father  paid 
thirty  pounds  cool 
Out 'of  dock  ere  he  died,  solid  man  of  Liverpool. 
Gen.  Lee  :  How  delicious !  King  Jozay  had   no 
such  wine 
Though  his  nobles'  wines  and  wives  he  made 

concubine. 
One  more  glass  and  I  will  sing  you  what  I  sang 
Jozay ! 

(^Mrs.  Gates  retires.) 

Gen.  Gates:    Sing  it   softly!    her   bereavement 
Mary  takes  away. 


84  POEMS 

Gen.  Lee  (^sings')  : 

Drink  to  the  lass  that  lingers  in  the  glass ! 
Oft  as  she  may  pass  she's  a  peri ; 
O  what  a  body  she, 
And  an  eye  of  yellow  glee  ! 
And  she  makes  you  bend  the  knee, — 
Miss  Madeira ! 

Her  breath's  boukay,  excels  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  she  holds  her  age  for  an  era ; 
Like  honey  are  the  drips 
From  her  glue-gold  kissing  lips, 
And  she  gui-gles  while  one  sips 
Miss  Madeira. 

Gen.  Gates  :  Hark !   'tis  a  hymn  for  victory. 

Our  German  choirs 
Have  come  from  Mecklenbui'g  to  sing  to  their 

esquires. 
Mrs.  Gates  (entering} :   Get   them   our  pear 

cider  worked  in  whiskey  barrels ! 
Set  it  out  upon  the  lawn !   I  love  those  carols  I 

German  Choir: 

King  Fritz  he  gave  his  sword 
To  the  blessed  of  the  Lord, 
And  he  only  waits  the  word 
From  Washington  to  die : 
Send  him  up !  Ye  Luther's  choir ! 
In  a  chariot  of  fire  !  — 
He  has  seen  his  heart's  desire : 
Washington  has  the  Victory ! 


TEAVELEBS'   BEST  85 

Cornwallis  through  our  gates 
Burst  over  our  estates  : 
Behind  York's  fortress  grates 

With  his  army  does  he  lie, 
And  in  spite  of  all  his  boasts 
He  is  drowned  upon  our  coasts  — 
Shout  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts : 

Washington  has  the  victory  ! 

O  God !  to  us  most  kind, 
Give  us  one  united  mind ! 
And  our  States  united  bind 

While  our  tyrant  we  defy ! 
We  have  passed  the  Red  seas  o'er 
And  are  on  the  farther  shore : 
Sing !  thy  people  evermore  !  — 

Washington  has  the  victory  I 

Gen.  Gates  :  The  voice  of  a  nation  I  surely  hear 
at  last ! 

Gen.  Lee  :  You  are  on  the  army  list  but  I  am  out- 
cast. 

Mks.  Gates  :  Come  among  our  neighbors  and 
with  their  joys  entwine  I 

Gen.  Lee:  They  won't  stand  like  the  French. 
I'll  stay  here  and  drink  wine. 

(^Uxit  General  and  Mrs.  Gates. ) 

Now  if  they  come  not  back  the  whole  bottle  is 

mine ; 
That's  why  I  like  a  dog:    he  cannot  di'ink  my 

wine. 
And  all  I  say  he  wags  his  tail  at,  backing  me  up. 


86  POEMS 

(^Bog  scratches  at  hack  door.') 
Come  in,  Cracow !    Hide  there  !    I'll  talk  to  thee 

and  sup. 
Gates  and  his  wife   with  his  small  parentage 

concur : 
His  father  was  the  butler,  mother  housekeeper 
To  the  Duke  of  Leeds;  that's  why  they  like 

Virginia, 
Where  land  and  money  do  not  need  insignia. 
I  was  a  General's  son,  sent  to  school  in  Swissland, 
And,  bred  in  barracks,  made  Indian  in  this  land, 
Named   Boiling  Water  by  Mohawks  at  Johnson 

Hall, 
I  crossed  these   States  on  foot  and  fought  at 

Montreal, 
Commanded  a  division  of  the  Portuguese, 
Was  Major  General  for  the  Poles,  the  same  for 

these 
Damned  rebels,  whose  rump  Congress  treats  us 

worse  than  Draco : 
Its  test  of  Generalship  is  how  to  hoe  tobacco. 

(^Cheers  outside.) 

Hear  how  the  Anabaptists  and  Reformed  cheer 
Gates  ! 

The  greedy  Dutch  for  once  eat  victuals  out  of 
plates ! 

Gates  has  one  greatness:  he  likes  me,  a  lady's 
son. 

I  hoped  to  make  and  rule  him  as  my  Wash- 
ington ; 

Indulgent  rustic  squire  and  hero  on  the  staff 


TBAVELERS'  REST  87 

As  Governor  Jefferson's  cock  he  lost  his  gaff 
At  Camden ;  Jefferson  from  Tarlton  ran  away 
But  like  all  writing  men  will  fight  some  other  day. 
These  politicians  of  Virginia  see  their  fate 
If  Union  be  resolved  and  Washington  be  great ; 
Young  Monroe  is  far-sighted :    he  says  Madame 

Gates 
More  ready  income  has  than  any  in  these  States, 
'Twill   work   upon    the   populace   by    printing 

presses. 
Against  a   King    and   Kingdom    we'll   foment 

addresses. 

(^Enter  Gen.  and  Mrs.  Gates.') 
Mrs.  Gates  :  Bless  me  !  I  smell  a  dog.    General, 

I  suppose  it's  you, 
Who  live  with  dogs  so  much  you're  dogg'd  and 

doggy  too. 
More  wine  ?     Well,  those  poor  folks  to  General 

Gates  were  sweet: 
Horatio  !  go  get  what  you  will  to  drink  and  eat ! 

(^Mrs,  Gates  gives  the  key :   Gen.  Gates  is 
followed  doivn  hy  Gen.  Lee's  dog.) 
Gen.  Lee  :  Lady !    Virginia's  queen !    To  you  all 
will  defer. 
Hast  heard  Gates  takes  Tom  Nelson's  place  as 

governor  ? 
He  drafted  and  conscripted  and  he  must  resign ; 
His  house  at  Yorktown  he  has  shelled  till  it's  a 
mine. 
Mrs.  Gates  :  That's  honor :  to  destroy  your  home 
where  foes  be  guest ; 


88  POEMS 

I'd  fire  a  cannon  heartily  on  Travelers'  Rest, 
If  round  its  humble  limestone  fort  our  f oemen  put 
Circumvallations  ;  I  would  burn  it  like  some  hut. 
Gen.  Lee  :  This  is  no  home  for  General  Gates :  'tis 

too  submiss. 
Mrs.  Gates  :  The  Tower  of  London's  governor 

was   Cornwallis. 
These  stiff  grey  walls  and  chimneyed  ends  to 

me  are  dear: 
My   son's   life   bubbled    like  our   springs    and 

ended  here. 
I  see  his  image  everywhere  o'er  these  slate  lands. 
He  loved  the  sheep  they  pastured,  the    sheep 

dog,  his  hands ; 
Blue  mountain  tops  above  our  wolds  my  spirits 

enjoy : 
I  think  they're  heaven  where  father  and  I  shall 

find  our  boy. 
Ambition  did  us  harm :  I  want  Horatio  good ; 
He  needs  excel  in  nothing  else:  we  have  no 

brood. 
No   more    than    General   Washington    or   you, 

Charles  Lee, 
Washington  was  for  the  cause,  the  public  family. 
That's  why  his  character  stands  out,  the  best 

of  you. 
As  from  North  Mountain  chain  out  there  abuts 

Fairview. 

(^Enter  Gen.  Gates.) 

Gen.  Gates  :    Eight  thousand   foot   and   sailors 
fifteen  hundred  were 


TBAVELEBS'   BEST  89 

Taken  at  York  —  the  prisoners  come  to  Win- 
chester — 
Charles  Washington  sends  me  a  post,  of  him 

'tis  kind ! 
Lord  Fairfax  heard  the  news  and  he  has  lost  his 
mind. 
Mes,  Gates  :  Poor  man !  He  has  seen  in  his  life 
William  and  Mary, 
The    Huguenots    suppressed    in    France,  —  all 

things  contrary; 
Cross'd  love  drove  him  into  his  wilds,  our  Lord 

Lieutenant ; 
Child  Washington  with  Indians  carried  his  pen- 
nant, 
Surveying  his  Culpepper  realm. 
Gen.  Lee  :  He  now  knows  why 

The  devil  showed  him  so  much  land  worship- 
fully! 
Mrs.  Gates  :  You  haven't  done  so    badly,    sir : 
Congress  paid  you 
For  every  acre  you  possess  ere  you  wore  blue  I 
Gen.  Gates  :  Lincoln  received  CornwallLs'  sword 
who  once  took  his 
And  neighbor  Otho  Williams  made  a  General 

is. 
That  young  West  Indian,  Hamilton,  stormed  a 
redoubt  — 
Gen.  Lee  :  And  if  he  lives  you  planter  men  will 
find  him  out  — 
Bastard  to  Adam  Smith,  accountant  and  blade. 
Mrs.  Lee:  Father,   the    Martinsburgers  come  to 
serenade 


90  FOE  MS 

And,  don't  you  tliink !    their  music  is  the  Hes- 
sian band 
You  took  at  Saratoga,  paroled  in  Maryland  ! 
I've  venison  for  them !  They  shall  drink  all  the 
stout ! 
{Dog  below  hotvls  at  the  Hessian  music  and  bursts 
into  the  room  and  is  seized  by  Mrs.  Gates.') 

Gen.  Lee  :  Don't  beat  ray  dog ! 

Mrs.  Gates  :     He's  got  a  paper  I'll  make  out ! 

{Exit  General  and  Mrs.  Gates  with  dog.) 
The  Hessian  Band: 

I. 

Our  Landgrave  did  not  right 
When  he  sent  us  here  to  fight 
Good  German  brothers  white 
That  we  thought  were  savage  red 
And  our  Duke  has  us  misled : 
Our  drums  now  they  say, 
"  We  have  light ! 
Ye  have  right !  " 
Hear  us  Peace's  music  play ! 
«  We  shall  be  of  one  band ! 
This  shall  be  our  motherland ! 
Hail !  great  America !  " 

II. 

Rash  Britain  is  undone 

By  our  Gates  and  Washington. 

Our  liberty  is  won 


TBAVELEBS'   BEST  91 

And  the  long  war  finished  ! 
To  the  hving  and  the  dead 
Our  drums  now  they  say, 
"  To  the  right ! 
Is  the  might !  " 
Hear  the  march  that  we  will  play ! 
"  We  shall  bring  by  our  Band 
Thousands  from  our  German  land  — 
Hail !  great  America  !  " 

in. 

For  this  Columbus  sailed 
And  the  Saxon  race  prevailed ; 
Independence  exhaled 
From  the  mountains  of  the  West, 
Where  the  eagle  builds  his  nest. 
Our  drums  now  they  say, 
"  O  how  bright ! 
After  Night ! " 
And  the  loud  Assembly  play !  — 
"  We  shall  enter,  hand  in  hand, 
To  the  beauty  of  your  land ! 
Hail  I  great  America  !  " 

Gen.  Lee  {solus) :  The  wine  makes  me  friendly ; 
I  wish  I  were  like  others  ! 

They  are  drinking  and  kissing  like  sweethearts 
and  brothers. 

I  sit  with  my  last  friend  in  Europe  or  o'er  here : 

Stand  by  me,  my  Bottle!  my  last  brave  gren- 
adier ! 

I  could  not  be  second;  I  was  second  and  fell; 


92  POEMS 

The  last  time  I  was  principal  I  fell  as  well ; 

Mixing  ink  with  my  whiskey  I  wrote  with  my 
fist 

And  Congress  countersigned  it,  "  Charles  Lee  is 
dismissed." 

When  my  fingers  were  shot  off  why  left  he  my 
hand? 

I  have  duel'd  with  career  and  scorned  repri- 
mand. 

No  fighter  should  write  till  his  history  is  done ! 

From  me  to  a  star  is  less  than  to  Washington. 

(^Se  hoivs  his  head  beside  the  bottle.^ 
(^Enter  General  Gates.') 

Gen.  Gates  :  Sad  ?  I  have  you  now.  'Tis  the  mood 
will  do  you  good : 
After  Camden  all  my  pride  like  a  son  I  subdued ; 
I  said  :  "  To  my  father  I  will  arise  and  go  I  " 
My  father  was  a  servant  and  his  son  fall'n  low. 
I  went  to  General  Washington  and  claimed  his 

hand, 
He  took  me  to  his  heart  and  I  felt  he  was  grand. 
Gen.  Lee:  I,  Lee  of  Villa  Veltra's  fight?  — 
Gen.  Gates  :  What's  that  renown  ? 

Europe  stands  tiptoe  gazing  on  him  of  York- 
town. 
I  would  not  have  you  stand  in  shadows  from 

that  light, 
'Twill  search  us  all. 
Gen.  Lee  :    Good  Dunker !  Be  not  too  contrite ! 
Clinton  has  an  army  left:    he  knows  a  cam- 
paign— 


TBAVELEBS'   BEST  93 

(Enter  Mrs.  Grates.^ 

Mrs.  Gates  :    I  reckon   it   is   this  one,    out   of 

Charles  Lee's  brain, 
Marked  ''  Copy  of  the  plan  left  with  Howe  in 

New  York :  " 
The  dog  you  taught  to  steal  thought  it  had  the 

smell  of  pork 
And  he  slipped  it  through  his  collar  — 

(She  hands  the  plan  to  General  Gates.) 

Gen.  Gates:  Why,  General  Lee? 

What's    this  ?     "J.  plan    to    break    the    public 

enemy  — 
Garrisons  on  tide-water  —  cut  Virginia  off 
And  raid  the  Dutch  farmers   in   the    mountain 

trough  ; 
Burn  their  barns  and  mills  ;  they  are  greedy  and 

ivill  pause 
And  cry  out  for  peace  though  they  love  the  rebel 
cause.'''' 
Mrs.  Lee  :    This  explains  why  Arnold  and  Corn- 
wallis  further  down 
Raided  far  up  the  country  into  Charlotte  town. 
Lee  pointed  out  his  neighbors'  wealth  in  these 

designs  — 
To  save  himself,  deserter  from  the  English  lines  ! 
Gen.   Lee  :    'Twas   versatility  when  prisoner,  — 

time  slack. 
Mrs.    Gates  :   You   didn't   fight   at    Monmouth 

when  ordered  to  attack. 
Gen.  Gates  :    I  cannot  take  the  view  that  this  is 
matter  light. 


94  POEMS 

You  were  fresh  from  our  lines  and  showed  Howe 
where  to  smite. 
Mrs.    Gates:    Showed    him   our    plantation    to 

burn,  where  you  are  drinking ! 
Gen.  Lee  :  I  did  not  think  — 
Gen.  Gates  :  One  cannot  draft  a  plan  unthinking. 
This  plan  we  had  discussed ;  it  was  all  in  reason. 
I  am  in  commission :  great  God !  is  this  treason  ? 
Gen.  Lee:  Why,  I  overflow  with  such  military  fun! 
Mrs.  Gates  :    I  am  no  Margaret  Arnold  though 

I  have  no  son. 
Gen.  Lee  :  Madame,  you  seek   to  drive  me  out 

from  Travelers'  Rest. 
Mrs.  Gates  :  This  is  Major  General  Gates ;  you 
are  a  dangerous  guest ! 
O  Lee  !    had  you  pure-hearted  been,  outside  your 

lines 
You  never  had  been  captured  by  your  concubines. 
While  Washington  to  save  your  neck  played  all 

the  man. 
You  sold  your  talents  to  our  foes  and  drew  this 
plan  ! 
Gen.    Lee:    I'll   never    come   here    more    while 

that  female  is  nigh. 
Gen.  Gates  :  Madame  Gates  is  my  wife  — 
Mrs.  Gates  :  Here  to  live  and  to  die  ! 

Gen.  Lee  :  I  shall  quit  Virginia :  farewell ! 
Gen.  Gates  :  I  fear  'tis  best. 

Gen.  Lee  :     Woman  and  serpent !  guard  ye  well 

your  Travelers'  Rest. 
(^Greneral  Gates  weeps.       His  wife  lights   General 
Lee  to  the  door.     The  dogs  hay.') 


C^SAR  95 

WASHINGTON 

Rare  the  chance  to  be  the  hero  and  the  pioneer ! 
Washington  has  squared  the  circle  and  has  cubed 

the  sphere. 
While  he  lived  fame  lagged  behind  him,  when  he 

died  went  on 
Like  the  loadstone  in  his  compass  and  the  stars 

at  dawn. 
They   who    mock   him   as    the    children    mocked 

Elisha's  cloak, 
Meet  the  she-bears  of   the  forest  and  the  towns 

in  smoke ; 
Shallow  skeptic,  simple  rustic,  in  his  faith  unite. 
And  his  portrait  like  the  sunburst  fills  the  world 

with  light. 

C^SAR 

(FROUDE) 

C^SAR  how  far  thy  arrowy  name 
Pierces  the  future  with  its  flame ! 
The  greatest  name  that  Jesus  knew. 
The  mightiest  man  that  Shakespere  drew, 
Plutarch  survives  but  for  thy  tale, 
Peter  and  Paul  by  thee  prevail. 
Namesakes  from  thee  Popes,  Kaisers,  Tsars, 
And  every  land's  Imperators  ! 

As  when  thy  mother  called  thee  nigh 
We  lisp  thy  name  in  warm  July, 
And  to  thy  calendars  go  back. 
The  Gospels  and  the  Almanac. 


96  POEMS 

The  German  learned  his  name  by  thee, 

No  Gaul  was  there  till  thou  did'st  see, 

And  British  men  in  every  age 

Begin  their  story  with  thj^  page  ; 

Spain,  Greece,  the  Moor,  the  Parthian  horde, 

Arab,  Egyptian,  felt  thy  sword ; 

Rome's  village  standard  thou  unfurled, 

The  narrow  town  became  the  world. 

Its  Senate  let  Barbarians  in 

And  all  the  races  made  akin. 

Then  on  the  fields,  all  smoothed  to  sow, 

The  seeds  of  Jesus  silent  blow. 

Jesus,  thy  friend  was  priest  to  Jove, 

And  Jesus,  Caesar,  Jove,  are  Love  ! 

J.  B.  STILLSON 

DECEMBER  26,  18S0 

Dead  courier  that  from  battle  came  so  fleetly 

Thy  bugle  full  of  music  for  the  land. 
Thou  fall'st  at  last  so  weary  and  so  sweetly 

The  bells  of  Christmas  tremble  where  they  stand. 
And  draw  the  tuneful  trumpet  from  thy  hand. 

What  beauty  in  thine  eyes  and  locks  of  raven 
When  youth  and  emulation  loosed  thy  rein ! 

What  tender  welcome  on  thy  lips  engraven 
That  friendship  never  shall  behold  again  ! 

What  honor  guided  aye  thy  pen  so  skilful 
That  mercenary  art  can  never  know ! 

What  indignations  womanly  and  wilful 
Bent  every  golden  tendon  in  thy  bow 
Till  broke  thy  string  and  winter  laid  thee  low ! 


POLITICIANS'    CHRISTMAS  97 

POLITICIANS'  CHRISTMAS 

A.  D.  1 

"  There  is  no  room  for  you  in  the  inn,"  said  the 

landlord  to  the  pair. 
"The  travel  this  month  is  lively,  and  the  house 

filled  everywhere ; 
The  Emperor  taxes  the  world  he  rules,  and  all 

Judeans  must  go 
Up  to  the  city  of  Bethlehem,  whether  they  will  or 

no." 

"'Tis  not  for  me,"  the  traveler  said,  a  carpenter 

tough  and  tried, 
"I  crave  a  bed  but  for  the  maid  who  has  ridden 

all  day  at  mj  side." 
"The  maid,  forsooth,"  the  landlord  said,  "hath  a 

matronly  look  to  me  !  " 
And  he  passed  a  wink   to  the  hotel  clerk,  who 

snickered  chivalrously. 

The  guests  about  the  hotel  clerk,  they  did  look  on 

askant  — 
The  Pharisee,  and  the  Sadducee  and  the  Greek  of 

the  Levant, 
To  mark  this  comely,  drooping  girl,  awhile  aside 

they  drew 
From  the  themes  of  taxes  and  of  tolls  and  internal 

revenue. 

"  There  is  a  stall  within  the  barn  no  camel  yet 
hath  ta'en ; 

'Twill  rest  the  young  girl  pleasantly,  unless  per- 
chance it  rain : " 


98  POEMS 

It  was  a  groom  who  whispered  thus ;  a  husband  he 

had  been, 
And  cheerfully  his  lodge  he  gave  to  this  poor 

Nazarene. 

Ye  fathers  nursing  on  your  knee  the  first-born  of 

your  dears, 
The  priceless  for  their  sufferings,  the  costlier  for 

their  fears, 
Think  over  in  these  winter  nights  this  Virgin's 

lonely  moan, 
And  Joseph's  loving  tenderness  for  offspring  not 

his  own ! 

All  night  the  politicians  talked  about  the  Roman 
yoke; 

The  inn  blazed  up  with  moving  lights,  and  roared 
with  many  a  joke : 

They  all  agreed  the  Jewish  state  somehow  must 
be  made  free. 

But  ever  about  the  "  patronage  "  were  sure  to  dis- 
agree. 

The  dromedaries  in  the  stalls  also  did  ruminate ; 
The  asses  and  the  saddle-nags  chewed  o'er  the 

themes  of  state ; 
None  saw  a  little  new-born  star  out  of  the  heavens 

fall. 
And  with  a  holy  glory  kiss  the  stranger  in  the 

stall. 

None  heard  the  mystic  choirs  that  sang  across  the 
glimmering  moors ; 


COMMANDER   LINCOLN  99 

None  saw  the  reverend  sages  ride  up  to  the  hostel 

doors ; 
And  when  the  earhest  Christmas  mom  o'er  crowded 

Bethlehem  crept, 
The  statesmen  in  the  manger  knelt,  the  politicians 

slept. 

Still  taxed,  still  taxing,  o'er  the  world  the  wise  and 

noisy  spin, 
They  get  the  tavern  clerk's  best  cheer,  the  best 

rooms  in  the  inn. 
Thank  God !    whose  stars  of  choice,  scarce  seen, 

upon  the  lowly  fall !  — 

The  mother  fainting  by  the  way,  the  baby  in  the 

stall ! 
1870. 

COMMANDER  LINCOLN 

(ADDRESS  BEFORE  THE  ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC  SOCIETY, 

1883) 

Civil  soldiers !  reassembled  by  the  river  of  your 
fame, 

Ye  who  saved  the  \drgin  city  bathed  in  Washing- 
ton's clear  name  I 

Which  of  all  your  past  commanders  doth  this  day 
your  memory  haunt  ?  — 

Scott,  McDowell,  Burnside,  Hooker,  Meade,  Mc- 
Clellan,  Halleck,  Grant? 

There  is  one  too  little  mentioned  when  your  proud 

reunions  come. 
And  the  thoughtful  love  of  country  dies  upon  the 

sounding  drum ; 


100  POEMS 

Let  me  call  him  in  your  muster,  let  me  wake  him 

in  your  grief ! 
Captain  by  the  Constitution,  Abram  Lincoln  was 

your  chief ! 

Ever  nearest  to  his  person  ye  were  his  defence  and 
shield. 

He  alone  of  your  commanders  died  upon  the  battle- 
field. 

All  your  generals  were  his  children,  leaning  on  him, 
childish-willed, 

And  they  all  were  filial  mourners  round  the 
mighty  tomb  he  filled. 

Tender  as  the  harp  of  David,  his  soft  answers  now 
become, 

When  amid  the  care  of  kingdoms  rose  and  fell 
some  Absalom ; 

And  his  humor  gilds  his  memory  like  a  light 
within  a  tent. 

Or  the  sunken  sun  that  lingers  on  the  lofty  mon- 
ument. 

Like  the  slave  who  saw  the  sunrise  with  his  face 

toward  the  West, 
As   it   flashed,    while   yet   unrisen,  on  a  slender 

steeple's  crest ; 
So  while  victory  turned  her  from  him  ere   the 

dawn  in  welcome  came. 
On  his  pen  Emancipation  glittered  like  an  altar 

flame. 

FeeUng  for  the  doomed  deserter,  feehng  for  the 
drafted  sire. 


COMMANDEB   LINCOLN  101 

For   the    empty   Northern   hearthstone    and    the 

Southern  home  afire, 
Mercy  kept  him  grim  as  Moloch,  all  the  future 

babes  to  free. 
And  eternal  peace  to  garner  for  the  millions  yet  to 

be. 

Not  a  soldier  of  the  classics,  he  could  see  through 
learned  pretence  — 

Master  of  the  greatest  science,  military  common- 
sense. 

As  he  watched  your  marches,  comrades !  hither, 
thither,  wayward  years. 

On  his  map  the  roads  you  followed  you  can  trace 
them  by  his  tears. 

In  the  rear  the  people  clamored,  in  the  front  the 
generals  missed. 

In  his  inner  councils  harbored  critic  and  an- 
tagonist, 

But  he  ruled  them  by  an  instinct,  like  the  queen's 
among  the  bees, 

With  a  health  of  soul  that  honeyed  Publicans  and 
Pharisees. 

Faint  of  faith,  we  looked  behind  us  for  a  chief  of 

higher  tone. 
While  the  voice  that  drowned  the  trumpets  was 

the  echo  of  our  own ; 
Ever  thus,  my  old  companions.  Genius  has  us  by 

the  hand. 
Walking   on   the   tempest   with   us,   every  crisis 

to  command ! 


102  POEMS 

Like  the  bugle  blown  at  evening  by  some  home- 
sick son  of  art, 

Lincoln's  words  unearthly  quiver  in  the  universal 
heart ; 

Not  an  echo  left  of  malice,  scarce  of  triumph  in  the 
strain. 

As  when  summer  thunder  murmurs  in  pathetic 
showers  of  rain. 

Years  forever  consecrated,  here  he  lived,  where 

duties  be. 
Never    railing    on    the    climate,    nor    the    toil's 

monotony ; 
Here  his  darling  boy  he  buried  and  the  night  in 

vigil  wept, 
Like  the  Lord  within  the  garden  when  the  tired 

disciples  slept. 

How  his  call  for  men  went  ringing  round  the 

world,  a  mighty  bell, 
And  the  races  of  creation  came  the  proud  revolt 

to  quell. 
Standing  in  the  last  reaction,  on  the  rock  of  human 

rights, 
Worn  and  mournful  grew  his  features  in  the  flash 

of  battle  hghts. 

Once,  like  Moses  from  the  mountain,  looked  he  on 

the  land  he  won. 
When  the  slaves  in  burning  Richmond  knelt  and 

thought  him  Washington, 
Then  an  envious   bravo   snatched  him  from   the 

theatre  of  things, 


COMMANDEB  LINCOLN  103 

To  become  a  saint  of  nature  in  the  pantheon  of 
kings. 

Faded  are  the  golden  chevrons,  vanished  is  the 

pride  of  war, 
Mild  in  heaven  his  moral  glory  lingers  like  the 

morning  star. 
And  the  freeman's  zone  of  cotton  his  white  spirit 

seems  to  be. 
And  the  insects  in  the  harvest  beat  his  army's 

reveille. 

All  around  him  spoiled  or  greedy,  women  vain  and 
honor  spent, 

Still  his  faith  in  human  nature  lived  without  dis- 
couragement ; 

For  his  country  which  could  raise  him,  barefoot, 
to  the  monarch's  height. 

Could  he  mock  her  ?  or  his  mother  —  though  her 
name  she  could  not  write  ? 

Deep   the    wells  of   humble    childhood,  cool   the 

springs  beside  the  hut, 
Millions  more  as  poor  as  Lincoln  see  the  door  he 

has  not  shut. 
Not  till  wealth  has  made  its  canker  every  poor 

white's  cabin  through, 
Shall   the   great   republic  wither,  or   the   infidel 

subdue ! 

Stand  around  your  great  commander,   lay  aside 

your  little  fears! 
Every    Lincoln    carries    freedom's    car    along    a 

hundred  years. 


104  POEMS 

And  when  next  the  call  for  soldiers  rolls  along 

the  golden  belt, 
Look  to  see  a  mightier  column  rise,  and  march, 

prevail  and  melt ! 

NOTHING  FALLS  SO  FAR 

Every  falling  star 

To  its  fate  is  lit. 
Nothing  falls  so  far 

As  we  pity  it. 
Woman  like  the  dove 

From  her  blasted  tree, 
Finds  some  fallen  love, 

Some  fierce  sympathy. 

Out  into  the  night 

Is  not  wholly  dark ; 
On  the  billows'  might 

Rides  the  human  bark. 
What  can  break  the  womb 

Dies  not  in  the  pit ; 
Hell's  a  better  home 

Than  we  pity  it. 

Nothing  falls  as  deep 

As  we  pity  it : 
By  your  side  may  sleep 

Crime's  long  hypocrite, 
While  the  bold,  frank  wolf 

Acts  that  dreamer's  part, 
Taking  to  his  gulf 

No  such  sneaking  heart. 


NOTHING  FALLS   SO  FAB  105 

All  the  felon's  lusts 

Are  the  good  man's  joys. 
Age  its  millions  trusts 

To  the  convict  boys ; 
In  the  ranks  enrolled, 

Colors  never  furled, 
Firm  the  guilty  bold 

Guard  the  coward  world. 

Human  nature's  chief 

From  the  gibbet  tree 
Took  the  dying  thief, 

Not  the  Pharisee, 
To  his  heavenhood, 

Fellow  judge  of  his : 
Nothing  is  so  good 

As  we  think  it  is. 

Every  heavenly  orb 

Has  the  rust  of  ours, 
All  that  breathe  absorb 

Errors  with  their  powers  ; 
Habits,  virtues  are. 

Stars  erode  by  grit ; 
Nothing  falls  so  far 

As  we  pity  it. 

Death  is  not  as  hard 

As  we  pity  it : 
It  is  life's  reward, 

Age's  sweet  acquit; 
No  more  pain  than  birth. 

No  worse  end  than  rust. 


106  POEMS 

Thou  indulgent  earth ! 
Take  thy  loan  of  dust ! 

HENRY  M.  STANLEY 

AT  THE  LOTOS  CLUB,  NOVEMBER  27,  1886 

Ah  !  little  did  I  ever  think, 

Aladdin's  lamp,  that  op'd  the  dark, 
One  plain  reporter's  skull  outshone  — 
To  light  a  dark  world  with  his  wink : 
That  at  my  side  was  Mungo  Park, 
Who  would  discover  Prester  John ! 

Yet  he  who  wrote  the  mighty  strife 

Where  Ethiop's  freedom  was  the  gage, 
Well-lived  to  beat  Da  Gama's  cruise, 
And  strike  at  slavery's  fountain  life,  — 

Marched  overland  through  Pluto's  age, 
And  was  the  Orpheus  of  the  News. 

Old  correspondent  of  our  war ! 

You  gild  our  humble  craft  with  gold 
That  from  the  Afric  sands  you  bring ; 
You  ride  the  night  like  Bethlehem's  star ; 
And  magi  follow  to  behold 
That  in  our  stall  was  born  the  king. 

You  go  where  Shakespere's  fancy  ceased  — 
Beyond  the  Roman  and  the  Nile ; 
Decatur  stopped  where  you  began ; 
And  drooped  the  missionary  priest, 
Lost  to  his  gospel  and  his  isle. 
And  all  but  one  brave  fellow  man. 


LOCAL   GBEATNESS  107 

Then,  darker  lands  of  envious  doubt 

You  found  returning  to  your  own  — 
The  shrug,  the  sneer,  the  pedant's  scorn, 
The  laz}^  printer's  rival  pout : 

Which  met  Columbus  at  thef  throne, 
And  were  the  Saviour's  crown  of  thorn. 

Though  courts  and  kings  may  now  avail 
For  wealth  or  glory,  of  your  use, 
And  in  your  name  think  lineage  be, 
I  only  see  in  Stanley's  mail 

The  youthful  herald  of  the  News, 
And  courier  of  Democracy. 

LOCAL  GREATNESS 

The  wide  land  has  a  million  streams 

That  babble  as  they  flow. 
And  sweet  the  plaint  of  local  themes 

The  thousand  valleys  know ; 
They  tell  their  tales  just  as  they  were, 

Not  as  they  ought  to  be, 
And  in  humanity  lay  bare 

Our  truer  history. 

In  every  place  a  lady  fair 

Had  lovers  thrilled  by  her. 
Love's  pastoral  was  tender  there 

And  rare  with  character ; 
Some  Helen,  Menelaus  wed 

And  Paris  stole  upon. 
And  in  their  small  republics  bred 

The  wars  of  Ilion. 


108  POEMS 

Out  steps  a  man  in  public  strife  — 

Twenty  as  good  remain  ; 
The  weakling  drew  the  famous  life, 

Homes  drew  the  men  of  brain ; 
They  give  his  nursing  starhood  sup, 

They  fix  his  astrolabe, 
And  local  kindness  holds  him  up 

As  if  he  were  their  babe. 

Up  to  their  priest  the  hearers  look  ; 

So  purely  shaved  and  friared, 
They  hear  him  read  his  holy  book 

And  think  he  is  inspired; 
Heaven's  love  he  macerates  at  length, 

But  while  his  pleadings  roll, 
The  congregation  is  his  strength. 

Some  lady  there,  his  soul. 

The  suave  historian  portrays 

As  he  would  have  it  seem. 
And  straightens  out  a  nation's  maze 

Like  Joseph,  Pharaoh's  dream  : 
Not  miracles  can  make  us  see 

Beyond  convincing  sense. 
Their  local  probability 

Supports  the  Testaments. 

The  criminal  of  an  era  starts 
Beside  some  loved  hearthstone, 

And  tramples  over  kindred  hearts 
To  infamy  alone ; 

But  neither  in  the  hell  below 
Nor  in  the  heavens  above 


LOCAL   GE FATNESS  109 

Can  they  the  million  outlaws  know, 
Saved  by  the  fireside  love. 

The  silent  boy  has  memories  strong, 

Though  he  seems  not  to  look, 
He  wins  the  cup  inscribed  erelong : 

"For  Lo\dng  of  a  Book." 
And  all  his  life  the  local  things 

Men  marvel  where  he  found ; 
His  genius  drank  the  haunted  springs 

Wherein  Narcissus  drowned. 

Yon  miser  note,  who  guards  less  well 

His  lady  than  his  hoard  I 
She  is  not  true ;  a  silent  yell 

Goes  from  his  broken  board. 
On  other  lands  at  his  decease 

Great  wealth  he  showers  free, 
The  flower  of  local  injuries, 

Some  World's  philanthropy. 

The  terror  of  the  village  goes 

To  its  long,  glad  relief. 
And  from  some  savage  border  grows 

To  be  the  Nation's  chief  ; 
No  clue  to  his  high  soul  they  find 

In  his  extraction  rude  ; 
His  isolation  was  his  mind. 

His  virtue  Fortitude. 

A  life  that  failure  has  pursued 

Till  but  its  honest  grit 
To  some  volcano's  altitude 


110  POEMS 

In  splendor  carries  it, 
The  Magi  of  the  East  go  round, 

Their  touchstones  to  employ. 
And  nothing  but  a  nugget  found,  — 

His  father's  country  boy. 

A  millionaire  some  goddess  fair 

To  his  protection  draws, 
And  thinks  she  fell  into  his  snare,  — 

Himself  the  great  first  cause  ; 
But  all  his  joys,  the  vagrant  boys. 

Her  idle  townsmen  had  ; 
From  huts  they  stray  their  wanton  way, 

Who  make  the  monarchs  glad. 

Not  palaces  these  sweets  enclose 

That  every  hamlet  keeps  — 
The  perfume  of  the  wild,  wild  rose, 

The  laborer  who  sleeps, 
The  young  heart  that  its  mate  has  caught, 

The  tears  poor  mothers  shed, 
The  Self  in  only  second  thought, 

The  baby  and  the  dead. 


OF  THE 


NEEDWOOD  111 


MARYLAND    POEMS 


NEEDWOOD 


Under  the  blue  South  Mountain,  Needwood,  the 

home  of  the  Lees, 
Stands  in  the   flowing   springs   and   among   the 

exotic  trees ; 
An  old  gray  house,  mysterious,  like  a  Zurbaran 

monk. 
Cowling  his  face  in  the  shadows  that  into  his  soul 

have  sunk. 

Once  'twas  a  school  of  learning,  drawing  the 
planters'  youth 

To  the  classical  keeping  of  Reverend  Bartholo- 
mew Booth : 

He,  a  recusant  rector,  hewed  him  a  school  of  logs 

Out  in  this  western  exile,  ancient  of  pedagogues ; 

Washington's  nephew,  Bushrod,  under  his  Latin 
was  drudge. 

Here  on  the  lawn  of  Needwood  starting  to  be  a 
judge ; 

Often  in  court  he  nodded,  dreaming  his  brain  was 
cooled 

By  the  long  verdurous  mountain  over  his  copy- 
book ruled. 

Thomas  Sim  Lee  came  sleighing  over  the  fences 
and  rigs. 


112  POEMS 

From  Prince  George,  with  his  lady,  Mary  of  Mel- 

wood-Digges, 
He  was  a  second  son's  second,  landless  except  in 

wife, 
Almost  as  tall  as  a  giant  and  born  for  the  era  of 

strife. 

Soft  as  a  glove  are  the  Lees  and  corded  in  neck 
like  the  bull ; 

Wide  were  the  lands  of  Needwood  rolling  and 
beautiful. 

Let  down  between  the  mountains  like  an  apron  of 
flowers. 

And  the  blue  distance  castled  with  Nature's  bat- 
tlement towers. 

Thomas's  kith  in  Virginia  headed  the  war  for  a 

nation, 
Thomas's  lands  and  stature  singled  him  out  for  a 

station  ; 
He  was  domestic  and  settled  but  of  such  is  the 

mastiff  and  ready  one, 
Maryland  made  him  her  governor  after  the  war 

was  a  steady  one. 

He  had  a  work  to  do  after  the  South  was  invaded 

And  all  the  Chesapeake  rivers  British  blockaded ; 

Shifted  the  base  of  the  war  to  the  Maryland  moun- 
tains. 

Flour  and  whiskey  and  beeves  to  be  fed  from  their 
fountains ; 


NEEDWOOD  113 

Wagons  and  vessels  to  press  with  a  tact  and  up- 
rightness, 

Noblesse  of  France  to  amuse  and  entreat  with 
politeness ; 

Down  at  Annapolis  day  was  all  straining  anxiety, 

Night  was  all  dancing  and  loveliness,  state  and 
society. 

Thus,  Comwallis  was  taken  and  Needwood  was 
home  again ; 

Lee  from  his  lands  and  his  dear  ones  hoped  never 
to  roam  again, 

But  to  watch  harvests'  and  winters'  annual  re- 
volving, 

And  her  blue  floodgates  of  mountains  Potomac 
dissolving. 

But  the  old  drums  continental  rolled  his  reelection. 
Out  in  the   West   had   the  whiskey  folks  made 

insurrection ; 
Soldiery  streamed  tln-ough  the  State  like  the  gold 

in  a  pennant, 
Under   his    cousin,    Hal    Lee,    the    Commander's 

lieutenant. 

Carroll  of  CarroUton,  Hanson  and  Harper,  his 
cronies. 

Visited  Needwood  in  coaches  or  canvassed  on 
ponies ; 

Singly  the  Maryland  Fed'rahsts  had  to  be  baited. 

Like  the  lone  wild  cats  that  lasted  till  exter- 
minated. 


114  POEMS 

Beat,  then,  the  reveillS  over  his  lifetime  of  action, 
Triumphed  o'er  Washington's  friends  the  Virginia 

faction ; 
Of  Madison's  cabinet  craven,  the  governor   read 

would. 
Chased  from  their  burning  metropolis,  almost  to 

Needwood. 

But  on  his  age  and  Tom  Johnson's,  his  governor- 
neighbor, 

Fell  the  sweet  notes  of  the  human  birds  piping  to 
labor, 

Building  the  road  to  the  West  and  the  Armorers 
merry, 

Tinkering  muskets  and  sabres  close  by,  at  the 
Ferry. 

Far  waved  his  wheat  like  his  panther  rugs  yel- 
lowed by  fire ; 

Stacked  like  the  arms  of  his  armies,  his  corn  rows 
retire ; 

Dropped  in  his  dozing  the  tinkle  of  church  bells 
ancestral,  — 

Plenty  and  Liberty  sang  him  their  anthem  or- 
chestral. 

Farms  he  divided  from  Needwood  to  daughters 

and  sons ; 
Pure  in  their  paths  were  his  seed  as  their  kinsfolk, 

the  nuns ; 
So  he  passed  out  of  the  vista  of  life  like  a  bird, 
That  in  the  deep  vault  grows  lesser  and,  last,  is 

not  heard. 


PACKHOBSE  FOBD  115 

Cannon  of  ci\dl  war  belching  and  squadrons  like 

bees 
(When  on  the  South  mountain  passes  the  last  of 

the  Lees 
Fought   for   he   knew   not   what)   wakened   him 

never : 
Thomas  Sim  Lee  had  passed  over  the  blue  bar 

forever ! 

Needwood,    old    manse!     long     neglected,     thy 

shadows  of  trees, 
Hug  round  thee  of  moonlight  and  mmgle  their 

ghosts  in  the  breeze  ; 
Thy  form,  antiquated,  pieced  out  and  partitioned 

and  sluunk, 
Seems  the  cells  of  a  soul's  transmigration,  but  ever 

a  monk. 


PACKHORSE  FORD 

(NEAR  SECEPHERDSTOWX,  VA.) 

The  Stone  Age  man  learned  first  the  ford,  by 
hammer  stones  his  footing  taught ; 

The  bison  next,  which  dammed  the  flood  and  with 
his  dusty  nostril,  thought ; 

The  Indian  from  his  moccasins  their  deer  foot 
crossing  instinct  caught. 

The  wild  goose  had  it  in  his  blood  and  squawked 

the  trail  the  panther  dyed. 
The    wild   crane   stalked  the    ford   for  pike  and 

stood  a  guide  post,  man  to  guide, 


116  POEMS 

The  river  in  more  shallow  tones  expressed  the 
shallows  it  might  hide. 

So,  when  the  hunted  outlaw  came,  he  saw  the 
trodden  ramparts  slant. 

The  trail  go  down  and  reappear  like  ends  of  rain- 
bows consonant ; 

He  told  the  peltry  hunter  where  to  guide  the 
woods-lost  emigrant. 

From  Rhenish  plains  where  feudal  fields  minions 

of  barons  taxed  upon, 
And   Baltic    coasts    and   Holland   swamps,  some 

wilderness  in  right  to  own, 
A    living    river    found    the    ford   while    planets 

brooded  Washington. 

The  Golden  Horseshoe  picnic  knights  from  one 

blue  Gap  had  looked  afar, 
Then,  sank  in  tideland  like  the  orb  that  is  both 

morn  and  evening  star. 
Before  the  Germans  flanked  the  sun,  slow  as  their 

Georgian  calendar. 

Behind    the   mountain   lines  they  slid  along  the 

crystal  drains  of  snows. 
And  found  the    Tuscarora's    gaps   he    ambushed 

for  Catawba  foes. 
And   passed   the    ford  at  dusk's  red  hour  while 

sunset's  vizor  masks  and  glows. 

Potomac's  flowing  cools  their  lives  and  in  the 
ripples  cattle  bend ; 


PACKHOBSE   FORD  117 

The  packhorse  feels  his  burden  fall,  the    smith's 

tire  smokes  the  kit  to  mend ; 
Their  white  knees  laving,  as  they  pray,  the  songs 

of  pilgrim  maids  ascend  : 

Stout  Luther's  hj-mns  and  Baptist  staves  from 
John  of  Leyden's  choral  tongue. 

And  Simon  Memmo's  madrigals,  the  Dunker 
lovers  tuned  'among ; 

They  stood  upon  Virginia's  rim  and  every  hope 
was  virgin  young. 

The  katydids  the  hollow  night  with  their  re- 
sounding snoring  fill, 

The  Switzer  whistler  calls  to  him  the  country- 
wondering  whippoorwill. 

Leaps  in  the  moonbeam  gleaming  trout  and  into 
Echo  sounds  distil. 

Yost  Hite  and  Jan  Van  Meter  led  the  Teutons  to 

their  grants  of  space  ; 
Above  the  ford  New  Mecklenburg  glassed  in  the 

river  lake  its  face, — 
Lord  Fairfax  measured  all  within  his  patent  tied 

with  royal  lace. 

At  Greenway  court  his  banished  life  in  As  You 

Like  It  joys  were  sinned, 
Young  Washington  invaded  there  for  Liberty,  his 

Rosalind, 
And  stretched  Virginia's  sandal  foot   far  as  the 

Gansres  of  our  Ind. 


118  POEMS 

The  men  of  Morgan  crossed  the  ford  nor  stopped 
till  Boston's  siege  they  swelled, 

They  drowned  the  fame  of  Gates  and  Lee  who 
past  the  Packhorse  crossing  dwelled, 

And  greeting  them,  his  old  chainmen,  the  great 
Surveyor's  eyes  o'er  welled. 

To  Rumsey's  steamboat  screamed  reply  the  fierce 

bald  eagle  o'er  the  ford, 
As   the  experimental  trip  the  Cincinnati's   chiefs 

record : 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day  to  Evolution  and 

the  Lord. 

The  bridges  o'er  Potomac  span,  and  still  the  old 

ford  had  its  loves  ; 
Josephs  and  Maries  came  this  way,  untaxed  amidst 

the  thirsty  droves 
That  panted  down  the  cool  ravines  and  lapped  the 

pools  by  willow  coves. 

Then,    closed  the   vine    its    vestibules    and    river 

travelers  knew  it  not ; 
The  Packhorse  Ford  in  slumber  lay  like  some  old 

ferry  right  forgot 
Till  on  its  bank.  Armies  appeared,  roused  by  an 

angry  nation's  shot. 

The   natural   route  of   savage    times    the   savage 

issues  had  restored 
And  like   the    loadstone    to   its   star.  Northward 

revolved  the  gleaming  sword  ; 
Redder  than  sunsets  was  the  blood  that  swelled 

the  moan  o'er  Packhorse  Ford. 


PACKHOBSE  FOBD  119 

As,  hereabout,  the  ridges  cease,  in  countermarches 

parallel, 
South  Mountain  in  the  Short  Hills  lost,  the  Blue 

Ridge  in  Elk  Mountain's  swell. 
Reverberated  on  the  ford  the  Northern  cheer,  the 

Southern  yell. 

Antietam,  Gettysburg  respond  to  Strasburg's  roar 
and  Winchesters ; 

The  armies,  like  the  bisons,  dam  the  waters  that 
the  guns  immerse ; 

Then,  swiftly,  peace  grew  like  the  corn  and  Free- 
men's was  the  universe. 

The  armies  paused  as,  on  the  Rhine,  the  German 

host  and  German  France 
Held  truce  in  times  of  Charlemagne  and  perished 

every  dissonance. 
Except  the  finished  German  tongue  and  the  soft 

parley  of  Romance. 

A  blended  race  one  destiny  swelled  like  Potomac's 
current  down. 

Each  old  ingredient  making  rhyme  in  the  Ameri- 
can renown ; 

The  old  ford  still  its  beauty  held,  like  lovely  giils 
of  Shepherdstown. 

The   raccoon    ogled   with    the    doves   that  cooed 

above  in  sycamores, 
The  fisher  cast  his  fly  for  bass,  wading  upon  the 

pebbled  floors. 
And  grounded  on  the  hidden  path  the  skiff  with 

its  suspended  oars. 


120  POEMS 

How  lovely  everything  appears,   as  if  composed 

it  ever  stood ! 
We  do  not  see  the  prints  of  time  beneath  the 

riffles  and  the  flood. 
The  ford  that  our  forefathers  crossed  is   in  the 

river  of  our  blood. 


FREDDIE'S   CLOCK 

"  Nothing  to  eat ;  neither  pork  nor  crock,- 
We  must  sell  the  old  tall  Clock  !  " 
Dandy  Grimes  with  a  tear  in  his  'eye 
Kissed  wife  Freddie  a  smug  good-bye. 

She  was  used  to  being  alone ; 
Only  the  Clock  she  could  call  her  own : 
Its  two  cherubs,  the  Sun  and  Moon, 
Her  sole  babies,  would  leave  her  soon. 

'Twixt  them,  upside,  rode  a  ship; 
'Twixt  them,  downside,  a  house  did  slip ; 
Human-faced  were  the  Moon  and  Sun : 
Save  these  babies,  Freddie  had  none. 

Everything  had  been  sold  to  live : 
Dandy  was  shiftless  and  fugitive. 
Now  he  had  gone  away  in  the  snow : 
How  the  wind  on  the  cape  did  blow ! 

Middletown  valley  the  snowdrifts  block 
From  the  creek  to  the  high  White  Rock  ; 
Midst  the  mountains  the  old  frame  house 
Was  going  down,  like  her  ruined  spouse. 


FREDDIE'S   CLOCK  121 

Orphan  cliild,  she  had  married  him,  — 
So  parental,  important,  prim,  — 
Cradle  he  gave  her  but  nothing  to  rock, 
Only  the  twins  in  the  old  tall  Clock. 

Now  he  was  old  and  she  was  young ; 
Over  a  Poor  House  fate  she  hung : 
Faitliful,  filial,  never  at  times 
Saw  she  a  life  beyond  Dandy  Grimes, 

Close  to  the  old  tall  Clock  she  stood. 
In  its  coffin  of  cherry  wood, 
Varnished,  respectable  and  plumb ; 
Staid  as  she  to  her  pendulum. 

Round  its  fadmg  dial  of  white, 
Gold  and  colors  remained  as  bright 
As  the  face  of  Freddie  in  tears. 
Midst  her  dial  of  golden  years. 

Tall  as  the  minute  hand  her  stand : 
Dandy  was  shrunk  like  the  hour  hand. 
Merry  as  Dandy,  full  of  his  swig, 
Clicked  the  second  hand's  thingumagig. 

But  the  Moon  with  its  hairless  brow 
Wondered,  black-eyed,  at  Freddie  now ; 
Red  its  cheek  as  an  apple's  blush, 
Ticking  to  hear  from  her :  "  Baby,  hush  ! 

"  O,  how  lonely  I  will  be. 
Children,  dear,  when  ye  go  from  me  ! 
Time  I  will  know  by  the  farmers'  bells 
When  my  little  ones  Dandy  sells. 


Of  THE 

"'' VERSfT  Y 

OF 

1-  f  ■ilVM*^   -■■' 


122  POEMS 

"  Down  in  the  Poor  House  of  Montdvue 
Frederick's  bells,  I  will  think,  are  you,  — 
By-o-babies  !  "  was  Freddie's  cry  — 
Sobs  were  choking  her  lullaby. 

Fire  went  out  and  Freddie,  wrapped 
In  her  last  thm  coverlets,  napped,  — 
Feeling  the  old  house  tremble  and  rock, 
Hearing  the  notes  of  the  old  house  Clock. 

Dreaming  of  officers  fetched  from  far. 
Friends  of  her  father  in  the  great  War, — 
Some  she  nursed,  in  her  child's  short  frock : 
"  Tick  !  tick  !  tick !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 

There  was  one,  who  had  called  her  "  Wife  "  ; 
Saying  her  beauty  would  scent  his  life ; 
Saying  her  youth  was  his  hollyhock  : 
"  Tick !  tick  !  tick !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 

"Where  is  Dandy?    I  hungry  grow: 

He  is  feeble  and  deep  the  snow ! 

Dandy  has  neither  a  glove  nor  a  sock." 

"  Tick  !  tick  !  tick  !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 

Sudden,  sleigh  bells  trembled  a-cold : 
Stood  in  the  doorway  a  stranger  bold, 
Sapng,  "  Pardon  me  not  to  knock  !  " 
"  Tick  !  tick !  tick !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 

"  Are  they  dead  like  the  old  man  here, 
I  have  fetched  in  my  sleigh,  his  bier? 
Frozen  woman  !  no  fire  !  no  sock !  " 
«  Tick !  tick !  tick !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 


FBEDDIE'S   CLOCK  123 

Making  a  fire  of  the  fanner's  fence, 
Chafing  her  body  without  pretence,  — 
Fair  as  a  child  in  her  frozen  smock, 
("  Tick  I  tick  !  tick  !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock.) 

The  good  stranger  performed  his  task, 
Warmed  her  throat  from  liis  brandy  flask, 
Called  her  "  Freddie,  his  hollyhock  "  — 
"  Tick !  tick  !  tick  ! "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 

She  arose  in  a  fine  man's  arms. 
Bare  as  the  house  were  her  tmgled  charms : 
"  Dandy  is  frozen  !  "  she  cried  with  a  shock  : 
"  Tick !  tick  !  tick !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 

«  Child  !  who  nursed  me  out  of  my  death  ! 
Take  back  from  me  the  warmth  and  breath 
I  remembered  from  thy  limbs'  lock ! 
("  Tick !  tick !  tick  ! "  said  the  old  tall  Clock.) 

«  Not  thy  face,  though  it  is  as  sweet : 

I  remember  thy  beautiful  feet. 

Straight  as  the  corn  ere  the  battle's  shock : 

("  Tick  !  tick  !  tick !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock.) 

"  Far  have  I  come,  in  a  widower's  glow, 
To  thy  bloom,  in  the  pure,  white  snow ; 
Round  thy  poverty  snowbirds  flock. 
("  Tick  !  tick  !  tick  !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock.) 

» I  have  the  blessing  men  call  wealth ; 
Thou  hast  the  riches  of  beauty  and  health : 
Take  my  name  and  adorn  my  gold !  " 
Freddie  clasped  him,  it  was  so  cold : 


124  POEIfS 

"  Do  not  sell  my  Clock  from  me  !  — 

Its  dear  babies  will  honor  thee. 

They  are  the  last  of  Dandy's  stock  :  " 

«  Tick  !  tick !  tick  !  "  said  the  old  tall  Clock. 


YERTES'  SPRING 

(NEAR  GAPLAND) 

"  The  fairy  spring  wells  up  from  sands, 
Beneath  the  mountain's  heavy  hands, 
And  from  its  pebbly  basin's  bath 
A  brook's  white  feet  have  worn  a  path. 
While  circling  round,  old  beech  trees  dream, 
Like  eunuclis  guarding  an  hareme  ; 
So  close  beneath  the  mountain  bowed 
It  seems  a  lakelet  in  a  cloud." 

Lionel  said  so,  bending  him 
Over  the  percolating  brim 
Whose  many  sources  flash  and  cease 
With  effervescing,  silent  peace  : 

"  Could  I  some  elf-appointment  make. 

At  midnight,  by  this  spring-starred  lake. 

Imaginations  might  arise 

Like  to  these  twinkling,  fluvial  eyes 

Within  my  fluent  cells  of  brain 

That  fill  with  thoughts  like  springs  of  rain !  " 

A  pheasant  boomed  his  thought  away, 

A  crow  called  downward  "stay!  stay!  stay!" 


YEBTES'    SPUING  125 

Lionel  bathed  Lim  in  the  pool 
And,  lying  down,  with  life  blood  cool, 
Fell  into  sleep,  till  midnight  drew 
Between  the  peaks  her  baldi'ic  blue. 

Lionel  woke.     The  fairy  lin 
Spirits  effulgent  held  within ; 
From  every  vortex  whirled  a  sprite, 
A  quivering  lily,  chemised  white, 
A  lady  toiletted  for  night. 

He  thought  the  Dunker  maids,  baptized, 
Had  lingered  here  etherealized, 
From  the  near  settlement  sedate 
On  Love  feast  night  to  recreate ; 
But  as  he  sidled  round  the  rim 
Their  white  arms  flashed  to  signal  him, 
Their  voices  like  the  cascade  sing : 
"  Thou  hast  desired  us  at  the  spring." 

Lionel  old  drew  near  to  list : 

The  first  young  maid  he  ever  kissed 

Dandled  upon  a  silver  jet — 

He  breathed  the  osculation  yet ; 

She  said,  "  My  love,  our  love  was  brief, 

As  in  my  eddy  spins  a  leaf !  " 

Another  nymph  Lionel  sprayed, 

A  different  and  a  country  maid : 

Sighing  "  beneath  a  bridge  at  dark 

You  w^ere  my  daring  city  sjjark  I " 

Another  Naiad's  voice  liquate 

Flowed,  "  Love  came  to  us  through  a  gate  ! " 

A  fourth  with  i-hythm  like  a  rune, 


126  POEMS 

"  Lionel,  once  in  my  ripe  June 

I  lower'd  my  eyes  that  flashed  a  dart 

Into  thy  Tincourageous  heart !  " 

"  We  never  touched,"  said  one,  "  our  lips, 

Only  our  trembling  finger  tips, 

But  they  remembered  it  till  dead !  " 

Another,  "  Love,  we  rioted. 

Like  these  swoll'n  sources  after  storm : 

Long  have  I  banqueted  the  worm !  " 

*'  Widow  am  I,  than  thou  more  old,  — 

Thou  would'st  have  wed  me  when  boy-bold ! " 

"  Lionel,  I  am  one,  whose  grief, 

At  my  cold  hearthstone,  for  relief. 

Fled  to  thee  like  a  maniac : 

Thou  wert  a  friend  and  led  me  back  !  " 

"I,  one  illiterate,  in  a  mart 

Who  read  thy  exile  with  her  heart !  " 

"  I  am  the  Nun  whose  holiday 

Thy  touch  made  everlasting  May  !  " 

"  I,  twinkling  from  this  spiral  sill. 

Am  she  whose  action  was  thy  Will !  " 

"  And  I,  thou  called  Rose  beauteous 

And  would  have  twisted  from  her  pride, 

For  womanhood  lived  duteous 

And  scenting  Virtue  for  thee,  died !  " 

Thus,  from  the  mountain  syphon  rise 
To  Amoroso's  faded  eyes. 
His  nymphs,  who  in  life's  sources  moved, 
Exhilarated,  bubbled,  loved; 
Returned  in  hydrostatic  power  — 
They  were  a  hundred  in  an  hour,  — 


TEBTES'    SPEING  127 

Flowing  from  Lionel's  brain  cells 
And  from  the  menstruum  of  the  wells ; 
Earth's  drip  from  out  her  cavern  chasm 
And  waste  of  parent  protoplasm,  — 
The  saturation  of  life's  plant 
And  spill  of  Pluto's  adamant. 

Upon  the  sand-baked  mountain's  lymph 
Glides  each  liquescent,  fluent  nymph  ; 
And  each  one,  had  it  vorticed  well, 
Might  have  been  dame  to  Lionel  I 
Each  had  combined  with  his  some  part, 
'Livened  some  recess  of  his  heart. 
To  its  pain's  ache  her  balsam  lent 
And  purled  away  its  sediment. 

The  constellations  over  pass 
And  in  the  Spring  a  period  glass. 
Each  shattered  in  the  short  embrace 
By  life's  resurging  in  its  face. 

Life's  active  Spring,  pneumatic  strong, 
Retains  no  orb's  impression  long, 
No  dalliance  can  make  it  glow, 
Like  energy  of  birth  below. 

The  pressure  of  the  life  to  be, 

On  ever}i;hing  lies  equally ; 

And  like  the  bubbles,  which  escape, 

One  or  another  takes  our  shape. 

For  momentary-  is  love's  touch. 

The  hungry  one  his  food  must  clutch. 

The  pair  that  float  adown  the  stream 

Give  and  receive  the  instant's  gleam  I 


128  POEMS 

Lionel  felt  that  all  was  good, 
And  man's  refreshment,  womanhood ; 
Love's  every  passing  chemistry 
Had  left  some  immortality. 
The  scent  of  its  capricious  hours, 
Was  still  like  banks  of  graveyard  flowers ; 
She  who  in  myrtle's  streamlets  lies 
And  sends  up  tendrils  of  blue  bell, 
Entwined  our  instant's  destinies 
And  kissed  our  heart  up  from  a  well. 

The  camps  of  stars  put  out  their  lights ; 

Day  breakfasted  upon  the  heights 

And  sowed  with  gold  the  furrowland ; 

Lionel's  hand  was  in  some  hand  : 

"  What  were  they,  husband  ?  "  said  his  wife. 

"  Bubbles,  once  beautiful,  of  life  !  " 


BALTIMORE 

Hanging  from  the  bay  bough's  azure  heights  - 

Affluent  bough  like  matron's  flowing  breast  ■ 
Baltimore  in  black  and  golden  lights 

Flashes  like  the  oriole  from  its  nest ; 
Round  the  red  warehouses  on  their  slips. 

Through  the  old  commercial  city's  maze, 
Stands  a  phantom  fleet  of  yarded  ships. 

Rumbles  the  long  serenade  of  drays. 

First  of  Western  cities  in  our  land, 
Last  born  sailor-city  of  the  East, 
Inland  reached  its  pike-roads  like  a  hand, 


BALTIMOBE  129 

Oceanward,  like  Venice,  it  increased. 
Washington  beheld  it  as  a  weed, 

Ere  he  died  its  splendor  looked  upon, 
Growing  with  the  genius  and  speed 

Of  its  one  compeer,  Napoleon. 

He,  the  Doge  of  Europe,  reaching  o'er, 

Adriatic  Chesapeake  to  wed, 
Dropped  a  wedding  ring  in  Baltimore, 

Left  his  last  successor  in  its  bed ; 
Still  its  beauteous  women  like  the  noon 

With  their  dusky  eyelids'  sweeping  wings. 
Give  the  strangers'  heart  a  summer  swoon; 

Whom  they  love  are  happier  than  Kings. 

Fleeing  Congress  sought  it  a  retreat ; 

Base  of  vict'ry  gathered  at  Yorktown  ; 
Samson  grinding  in  its  mills  of  wheat, 

All  the  bayports  fell  to  its  renown. 
Iron,  marble,  bitumen  and  brick 

Grew  as  shellfish  near  its  deep'ning  piers ; 
Landsmen  banded  in  its  mecanique  ; 

All  its  water-men  were  privateers. 

Athens  might  old  tyrants  fawn  upon ; 

Spartan  Baltimore,  our  young  recourse, 
Formed  her  phalanx  around  Madison  — 

Taught  America  another  force. 
When  our  flag  the  smoke  o'er  Henry  clomb, 

Key's  bright  anthem,  in  spontaneous  flow, 
Arched  it  like  the  streaming  of  the  bomb  — 

Arch  that  rounded  in  the  pool  of  Poe. 


130  POEMS 

As  the  blue  streams  flow  toward  the  bay 

And  the  golden  wheat  toward  the  mills, 
To  the  milling  city  take  their  way 

Blue  and  flaxen  Germans  from  the  hills. 
Like  the  twilights  on  the  Chesapeake, 

Which  through  crystal  bars  their  purple  pour, 
Latin,  Creole,  Moorish  contrasts  streak 

British,  Celtic,  Baltic  Baltimore. 

Stepping  down  the  spires  to  the  ships, 

Like  the  cascades  from  their  woodland  wells, - 
Like  the  melodies  of  lovers'  lips,  — 

Chime  the  foundry  city's  tender  bells. 
And  the  pungy  fleet  from  Eastern  Shore 

Skimming  like  the  wild  fowl  on  the  dawn, 
Brings  the  pearly  sweets  to  Baltimore, 

Riding  in  the  basin  like  its  swan. 

First  in  War,  his  column  calm  upon. 

Stands  the  great  Virginian,  looking  o'er. 
Where  the  victor  ranks  of  Wellinsrton 

Broke  before  the  boys  of  Baltimore ; 
And  the  last  survivor,  left  alone 

Of  the  Magna  Charta's  daring  theme. 
Laid  the  nave's  cathedral  corner-stone 

O'er  the  young  nativity  of  Steam. 

As  the  tree  its  annual  growth  compiles. 
Binding  silently  the  circle's  marks. 

Grew  the  beech  tree  Annual  of  Niles, 
Budded  evergreen  the  staff  of  Sparks. 

O,  ye  merchants  !  on  your  commonweal 


BALTUIOBE  131 

Sits  the  raven,  saying  "  Nevermore  " 
To  the  native  palette  of  your  Peale ; 
Wirt  and  Kennedy  were  Baltimore. 

Forum  of  the  Capital,  herein 

Met  the  Tribunes  in  Convention  first, 
Making  Presidents  amidst  the  din. 

Where  the  local  factions  fretted  worst ; 
Jackson  broke  Virginia's  cabal. 

Pierce,  Van  Buren  passed  the  chariot  score, 
Lincoln  crowned  upon  the  Lupercal 

Faced  his  martyrdom  from  Baltimore. 

As  for  Helen's  beauty,  all  the  Greeks 

Troy  besieged,  the  valiant  armies  tore 
All  thy  ports  and  plateaus,  Chesapeake  ! 

For  thy  bloom's  possession,  Baltimore  ! 
In  thy  heart  two  spouses  did  contend 

And  to  each  one  thou  had'st  given  thy  hand. 
But  the  ring  thou  cherished  to  the  end 

Was  thy  mother's  blessing,  Maryland  I 

Gliding  in  the  current  like  the  boat. 

That  in  times  colonial  was  their  chaise. 
Dove-pure,  in  the  hurly-burly  float 

Faces  of  the  old  tidewater  days ; 
Matrons  of  the  Marylander  peace. 

Daughters  of  the  old  housekeeping  life  ; 
In  their  arms  is  "  Multiply  !  Increase  I  " 

In  their  souls,  religion  of  The  Wife. 

As  the  white  mists  go  up  from  the  bay 
To  the  marble  heights  that  oversee. 


132  POEMS 

All  the  life  colonial  clears  away 

To  the  city's  higher  destmy. 
On  the  railways  of  the  mainland  shore, 

Midst  the  Cinque  Ports'  warden  cities  strung. 
Shines  the  jewel  light  of  Baltimore, 

Like  a  star,  Orion's  Belt  among. 


SIR  JOHN  ST.  CLAIR 

BUILDER  OF  THE  FIKST  ROAD  ACROSS  THE  MOUNTAINS 

His  name  is  lost  save  in  a  brook  of  water 

That  darkly  plunges  down  a  forest  glen. 
Like  that  lean  army  pioneered  to  slaughter 

Through  lonely  shades  to  horrible  Duquesne ; 

But  in  the  road  he  hewed  across  the  mountains. 
Where  Braddock  sleeps  beneath  his  wagon  wheels, 

A  living  brook  goes  on  from  Eastern  fountains, 
No  wars  arrest,  no  killing  frost  congeals. 

His  was  the  skiff  that  hardily  descended 

The  wild  Potomac  to  the  roaring  falls, 
His  were  the  floats  the  soldiery  befriended 

To  pass  the  torrent,  under  mountain  walls ; 

His  were  the  bridges  over  the  Opequan 
And  the  Antietam  in  the  morn  of  time, 

Crossed  by  a  multitude  no  man  can  reckon 
To  sceneries  and  destinies  sublime. 

Behind  his  axes  formed  the  van  of  movement. 
His  picks    and    shovels   were    the    conquering 
swords : 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  133 

And  in  the  rift  of  light  he  ope'd,  Improvement 
Went  single  file,  through  hidden  savage  hordes, 
Until  the  pack  mules  with  their  bells  were  merry 

Where  rolling  drums  in  vain  inspired  the  fight. 
And  sheep  and  shepherds  tarried  by  the  ferry 

That  drowned  a  host  amidst  the  battle's  fright. 

High-mettled  Scot !  thine  is  no  glory  hollow : 

Shall  we  forget  thee  in  our  Westward  Ho  ?  — 
When  thy  canoe  the  laden  barges  follow 

And  up  thy  path  the  steaming  engines  blow  ? 

No  I  while  the  sky  the  Alleghany  arches. 
The  good  road  builder's  name  shall  be  revealed : 

Sir  John  St  Clair's  victorious  army  marches 
Above  the  army  lost  on  Braddock's  field. 
1874. 


SOUTH   MOUNTAIN 

A  BROWN  STUDY 

Bill  !  my  black  horse,  end  your  pawing ! 

We  must  have  our  Sunday  canter 
On  the  sky  line  of  South  Mountain : 

Take  it  easy,  Billy  I  Saunter ! 
Till,  above  the  Gap,  five  hundred 

Feet  you  rise  and  find  the  level, 
Then,  warmed  up,  your  eye  and  nostril 

Take  the  beauty  of  the  devil 
And  you  show  me  kingdoms  many, 

Fertile  valleys  bounding  free. 
But  your  horse  sense  never  mentioned 


134  POEMS 

"  Take  them  all  and  worship  me  ! " 
Nature's  worship  is  the  freest  from  idolatry. 

Like  Bellerophon's  high  saddle, 

Ramps  the  gap  of  Solomon, 
Where  the  Blue  Ridge  swerves  Potomac : 

Drooping  low,  its  course  is  done. 
Like  its  colts,  low  mountains  gambol 

Round  its  neck,  in  woodlands  bended ; 
To  McClellan's  height  they  ramble 

And  Antietam's  vale  extended 
Far  as  Kittatinny's  wand,  — 
Nation-vale  of  Cumberland. 

Southward,  valleys  like  white  arms 
Separate  from  breathing  charms 
Of  pink  hillocks  ;  Cupid's  locked  in 
Venus  mountains  of  Catoctin  : 
Through  their  embrasures  I  see 
Aurora  kiss  Monocracy. 
Four  republics  interlock 
From  the  dome  of  the  White  Rock ; 
Penn  and  Calvert,  Smith  and  Brown, 
Circle  round  me  their  renown. 
Bayward,  hke  an  antistrophe. 
Tiptoes,  tender  Sugarloaf. 

O  !  how  silent  in  the  air. 

Whilst  the  churchbells  low  to  prayer ! 

Here,  where  thunder  clouds  are  riven 

And  the  Christians  quail  at  heaven, 

Not  a  being,  scarce  a  bird. 

In  the  golden  light  is  heard 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  135 

Of  this  long  catliedral  nave, 
"Where,  of  yore,  the  hunted  slave 
Walked  this  mountain's  bulwark  far, 
Worshipping  the  polar  star. 
Hoping  to  escape  the  rod 
Of  them,  downward,  praising  God  I 
And  the  high-souled  mountain,  free, 
Leaped  at  birth  from  slavery,  — 
Without  company  set  forth 
For  its  destiny  in  the  North ; 
Striding  rivers,  till  it  passed 
To  New  England's  rock,  at  last.'^ 

Where  the  edged-up  rock  is  crusted 

Hangs  a  shelf  of  green  debris^ 

Like  a  mantel  for  Penates 

In  the  Greek  mythology 

And  along  its  cornice  grooved. 

Riding  o'er  the  deep  abyss, 

To  be  Ovid,  I  am  mov^d, 

In  a  metamorphosis. 

What  is  that  I  see,  resolving 

From  a  rock,  to  be  a  man  ? 

By  his  flat  nose  and  his  hoofness, 

'Tis  the  pagan  fellow.  Pan  ! 


1  The  South  Mountain  of  Maryland  is  the  Blue  Kidge  of 
the  South,  or  rather  its  countermarch,  beginning  a  few  miles 
south  of  the  Potomac,  while  the  Blue  Eidge  dies  out  a  few 
miles  north  of  the  Potomac,  near  Antietam  battlefield.  The 
"fault"  or  dislocation  is  so  marked,  that  the  sections  of 
former  Slavery  and  Freedom  appear  to  be  broken  by  nature, 
in  these  oppositely-proceeding  ridges. 


136  POEMS 

"  Buy  my  rattler's  rattles,  Mister  ? 
I  hoodooed  the  snake  with  words : 
Me  and  him  was  brother  and  sister — 
Hissed  and  kissed  like  a  couple  of  birds  ! " 

"  Pan,  thou  rascal !  Well  I  know  thee  !  — 
Son  of  Dryops,  Hermes  by : 
Woods  and  mountain  were  thy  parents, 
Tangled  in  the  tingling  sky !  " 

"  Hi  yi !  Mister,  you're  on  to  me 
And  your  Greek  I  understand ; 
When  they  Christianized  old  Hellas 
I  moved  into  Maryland. 
Every  preacher  has  a  sect  yer 
And  United  Brethren  split,  — 
Sunday  mornings,  how  they  lecture, 
When  the  old  zinc  churchbells  quit ! 
Nymphs  and  swains  I  make  afraid ; 
My  South  Mountain  thunder  storms 
Beat  all  preachers  in  the  trade. 
And  I  sell  all  the  Reforms. 
Breeches  hide  my  fetlocks  hairy, 
I  go  courting  like  a  younker. 
And  trail  up  the  mountain  fairy 
With  my  long  beard,  like  a  Dunker." 

"  Pan,  I  like  thee  ;  come  with  me ! 
Let  us  worship  Poetry !  " 

"  My  spHthoof  is  no  soft  sock : 
I  will  race  you  to  Black  Rock ! 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  137 

There  I  have  a  noble  fountain, 
Wrist-thick,  plunging  from  the  mountain, — 
Nectar  hidden  in  a  spring, 
Jove's  own  cuckoo  bird,  to  sing : 
Give  your  snaffle-bit  release : 
Follow  me  to  Gods  and  Greece  ! " 

Scarce  my  horse  could  keep  in  sight 

Pan,  who  skipped  from  Gap  to  height ; 

All  the  battle  crest  he  passed, 

Now  and  then  a  smirk  to  cast 

Back  to  me,  to  beckon  on. 

When  the  folks  to  church  had  gone ; 

In  his  head  I  seemed  to  trace 

Satyr  Lincoln's  kindly  face. 

Who  his  armies  thence  did  see, 

And  made  all  the  sorry,  free. 

When  his  pipe  friend  Pan  inhales 

Fancy  may  free  all  the  vales, 

Move  the  stones  of  ignorance 

And  make  stocks  and  reptiles  dance  ! 

Worship  hushed  their  hector  tune. 
As  we  lost  the  bells  of  Boon, 
And  betwixt  two  mountains  strode. 
Up  a  ravine-smothered  road. 
Then  unto  the  ridge  we  cling, 
Till  we,  three,  bend  to  a  spring. 
And  we  hear  a  chorus  rise 
From  the  woodlands  to  the  skies. 

"  Hist !  "  said  Pan,  and  horn-piped  free : 
"  Hear  Grandfather's  family !  " 


138  POEMS 


THE   IIVOIORTALS 


Father !  'twas  thy  power 
Sired  us  life's  fond  hour !  — 
Thy  delight  bequeathed 
When  thy  strong  love  breathed : 
Bless  thy  wilful  rove  ! 
We  are  thine  by  Love. 

Mother !  'twas  thy  charm 
Made  thy  lover  warm ! 
And  the  mingled  blood 
Cannot  but  be  good  : 
Bless  the  nuptial  grove  ! 
Thou  art  ours  by  Love. 

JOVE,   JUNO,   LETO,   THEMIS,   DIONE 

Children  !  Human  fruit ! 

Evil  to  impute 

To  the  hands  that  pull 

Ye,  life  beautiful, 

Is  life  to  reprove ! 

Ye  are  ours  by  Love. 

PAN   AND    THE   BIRDS 

The  mountain  is  so  slim. 
There  is  only  room  for  him 
I  bring  this  Sunday  prim, 
To  know  the  Gods  of  old  — 
Cheery  jug  Jioo-e,  pu  twit  chee  ! 
He  loves  them  for  themselves, 
The  woods  and  fauns  and  elves : 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  139 

His  repartee  is  bold, 

And  he  dropped  at  once  on  me : 

Jug  jug  cheery,  ha  tu  pu  tsee  ! 

Than  from  the  black  firs  nigh, 

As  startled  vultures  fly, 

There  came  a  fluttering,  — 

Great  shadows  shook  a-wing,  — 

And  Pan  to  me  exclaimed  : 

"  Push  on  or  be  heaven-shamed  !  " 

He  stooped  upon  his  haunches 
And  bent  aloft  the  branches. 
I  followed  on  the  ledge 
Out  to  the  mountain's  edge, 
And  such  a  landscape  burst 
Upon  my  sense,  that  first 
I  gave  not  Gods  their  duty, 
In  our  own  Planet's  beauty. 

The  whole  world  seemed  my  own, 
And  I  its  lover  lone. 
The  great  Black  Rock  my  throne. 
Its  broken  pulpits  swing 
Dizzily  staggering 
Up  from  the  debris  scorched, 
Where  furry  forests,  torched, 
Blackened  the  acres  strown 
Of  mountain  overthrown. 
Then  grew  again  in  stone  : 
Pluto's  wide  blasted  mines, 
Encompassed  by  green  pines. 
That  like  concentric  weaves 


140  FOE 318 


Moaned  in  the  mountain  caves, 
And,  farther,  yet  away, 
The  lands  like  ocean  lay,  — 
Towns,  woods  in  fainter  tone 
Fading  into  a  zone. 
Till  nothing  was  defined, 
But  magic,  on  the  mind 
And  Love,  that  thrilling  is, 
Like  fear  before  the  kiss. 

"  O  !  blue  -^gean  waves 
Of  land,  that  Hellas  laves, 
Among  the  isles  of  arts,  — 
Along  the  Lydian  marts. 
And  Thessalonian  caves ! 
Can  no  Minerva  sway 
Thy  dull  inertia? 
No  Graces  oversee 
Thy  Christianity? 
No  Muses  come  to  teach 
The  dervishes  who  preach? 
Nor  wake  thfe  moral  Three 
Who  sleep  eternally  ? 
Xerxes  is  overthrown 
But  Pallas  is  unknown. 
Venus  is  Vulcan's  love 
But  where  is  golden  Jove  ? 
Olympian  genius,  rise  ! 
And  charm  our  destinies  !  " 

The  sound  of  sledges,  breaking 
Of  gravestones,  for  a  larking, 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  141 

And  ba-a-ing  lambs  a-quaking. 
And  cut-throat  dogs  a-barking, 

Came  to  me,  echoing  up, 
Like  Tantalus's  cup. 

"  Welcome,  thou  friend  of  Pan  ! " 
A  hidden  voice  began. 

Around  me,  on  the  rocks. 

In  store  clothes  and  in  frocks, 

A  gypsy  party  lay. 

In  silent  holiday,  — 

A  strolling  minstrel  band. 

All  rose  and  shook  my  hand. 

Behind  the  life  that  plods, 
I  recognized  the  Gods. 

As  one,  high  Jove,  I  deemed. 
An  eagle  rose  and  screamed. 

I  said  unto  him,  then, 

"  Father  of  Gods  and  Men  ! " 

He  looked  a  wise  man-reader 
And  sapient  woman  pleader 
And,  all  around,  safe  leader. 

"  Stopped  is  the  world,"  said  Jove, 
"  When  Gods  do  never  move  : 
We  move,  where  most  we  love. 
With  men,  our  Goddish  boys. 
As  urchins  love  their  tovs 


142  POEMS 

And  think  them  real  things, 
"We  are  infantile  kings. 
Our  origin  was  wrack 
But  never  look  we  back, 
No  more  than  suns  lament 
Nebulous  sediment: 
Onward  and  formative 
We  join  or  would  not  live. 
Conversions  we  despise,  — 
Sect-makers  so  entice. 
A  natural  man  art  thou  ? 
So  are  thy  Gods,  I  trow ! 

Strong  policy  and  span 
Rule  all  the  breathing  mass. 

I  love  thee,  for  the  Man, 
That  is  my  looking-glass  !  " 

CHORUS   OF   HOURS 

Man  !  for  whom  Sabbaths  were  made  ! 

Walk  in  the  cornfield  and  pluck ! 
Hunger,  the  God  thou  obeyed ; 

Ere  thou  couldst  see,  thou  hadst  suck : 
Tottering  ere  thou  couldst  talk, 

Laughing  before  thou  didst  teethe. 
Why  shouldst  thou  crawl,  who  can  walk  ? 

Why  shouldst  thou  mope,  who  can  breathe  ? 

THE   GRACES 

Woman !  for  love  thou  wert  born,  — 
Hast  thou  no  goddess  of  Love  ? 

Fade,  in  the  amorous  morn. 
All  thy  sky  sisters  above  : 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  143 

Venus  the  star  of  the  Even, 

Jupiter  star  of  the  Morn, 
Moon,  the  soft  mistress  of  heaven. 

Loveless  thy  life  is  forlorn. 

THE  injSES 

Mind  !  in  a  barren  infinity. 

Lost  are  thy  glorious  parts  ! 
Dwarfed  in  a  mystical  trinity 

Tranced  are  the  beautiful  arts : 
Fancy,  asleep,  that  enthuses, 

Thought  that  is  stagnant  in  creeds ; 
Greed  has  degraded  thy  Muses, 

Form  has  enslaved  thee  with  needs. 


Here,  Neptune  upon  Billy  springs : 
The  horae  immediately  had  wings 
And  bore  him  off  to  crystal  wells. 
Proud  as  of  winter's  sleighing  bells. 

Mercury,  with  his  pinions  loosed, 
(Pan's  father)  Juno  introduced, 
A  stalwart  dame,  who  said  to  me, 
"  They  libel  me  with  jealousy  ; 
Seldom  with  Jove  am  I  at  odds ; 
True  Gods  are  never  jealous  Gods. 
He  is  not  of  that  passive  lymph 
Jocund  to  be  with  one  poor  nymph. 
He  sometimes  plays  a  prank  with  me, 
To  test  my  femininity  : 
I  stamp  my  foot  and  make  him  beg." 
(She  had  a  straight,  celestial  leg.) 


144  POEMS 

"  Of  all  the  motliers  e'er  I  saw, 

I  would  take  you  for  mother-in-law !  " 

"  Here,  H^W,  (laughter !  Lemonade  ! 
Heaven  only  keeps  one  servant  maid. 
And,  more  than  one,  makes  earth's  distress. 
Among  the  servant-scourged  rieltesse."' 

The  red  bird  dyed  not  the  bough-tryst 
Bright  as  the  cup  on  H^bd's  wrist : 

"  I  would  that  H^b^  made  a  slip  — 
Many  —  betwixt  her  cup  and  lip  !  " 

She  made  me  tender  Iris  know 
And  said,  "  Here  is  my  only  bow !  " 

Mars,  in  an  old  blue  soldier  cloak  — 
Frog  in  his  tliroat, —  next  to  me  spoke : 
"  This  is  my  friend,  Venus  the  flighty, 
The  wife  of  Vulcan,  —  Aphrodite  !  " 

A  trim  brunette  raised  her  grey  eyes, 
She  was  of  loving,  precious  size, 
Her  features  Greek  and  regular. 
The  soft  soul  of  the  evening  star. 
She  had  a  vestal,  hearthside  look. 
Its  twilight  glow  my  being  shook  ; 
Her  bosom,  perfect  as  the  dove, 
Breathed  coolest  imiocence  of  love. 
Something  of  trust  her  quiet  shed. 
As  on  my  heart  to  lay  her  head. 

"  O  thou  for  man  not  always  best ! 
Whence  bringest  thou  that  soul  of  rest  ?  " 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  145 

"  Man's  mightiest  needs  I  rule,"  said  she, 
"  Mother  of  Immortality." 

The  glorious  landscape  faded  quite, 
Love  was  a  world  more  infinite; 
No  stranger  was  this  lady  now: 
Once  I  had  kissed  her  low,  white  brow 
And  trembled  at  my  daring  femt ; 
She  was  my  neighbor  and  a  saint. 

"  Hark  !  sir,  my  husband  is  mending 
Bicycles,  for  our  descending !  " 

VULCAN 

(^Sings.') 

The  mountain  forges  throb  no  more  ; 

They  lost  their  iron  soul 
When  failed  the  ore  banks  of  the  ore. 

The  woodlands  of  charcoal  : 
Far  West  the  fuel  and  the  vein 

Into  each  other  flow,  — 
But  Vulcan's  hammer  wakes  again 

Ech6!   Ech6!   Ech6! 

(^Echoes  repeat.^ 

The  mountain  streams  know  not  the  mill. 

Far  West  the  grain  fields  sweep  ; 
In  ruined  mills  the  whippoorwill 

Lulls,  with  its  plaint,  to  sleep ; 
But  tender  arts  still  haunt  the  glen. 

Light  winks  the  dynamo, — 
And  Vulcan  loves  the  sons  of  men : 

Echo!    Echo!    Ech6! 


146  POEMS 

Now,  Pan  set  up  his  pipe  to  blow, 
And  all  the  Gods  formed  in  a  row 
To  trip  it  to  the  spring  and  spout  — 
Apollo  led  the  happy  rout,  — 
A  fine  book-agent,  starved  off  here. 
And  dieted  on  atmosphere. 

He  said  "  all  books  these  good  Dutch  lack, 
But  one,  '  Hagerstown's  Almanac'  " 

Pallas-Minerva  took  my  arm  : 
She  had  a  man-in-woman  charm, 
Her  precious  book  to  me  she  lent, 
"  Darwin  on  Species  and  Descent." 

"  Goddess,"  said  I,  "  from  Jove's  own  head, 

Born  never  in  a  mother's  bed,  — 

Why  are  not  more  born  from  the  skull  ?  " 

"  Because  all  would  be  beautiful." 

"  Hast  thou  not  loved,  who  art  so  kind  ?  " 

"  Yes,  men  love  me  when  they  grow  blind. 
I  am,  in  their  descending  life, 
The  evening  lamp,  the  second  wife. 
No  beauty  have  I  to  repine,  — 
Never  youth's  wedded  concubine. 
My  tongue  is  mellow  as  my  theme 
And  leads  them  to  the  love  Supreme. 
Prudence,  my  mother,  swallowed. 
Grew,  to  her  time,  in  father's  head  : 
He  paid  of  birth  the  cruel  tax, 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  147 

And  was  delivered  with  the  ax ; 
Let  men  so  suffer  Wisdom's  birth,  — 
I  shall  have  sisters  round  the  Earth." 

Mercury's  turtle  shell  strung  lute 
And  Minerva's  pure  toned  flute,  — 
Jove,  bandmaster,  singing  bass,  — 
After  Pan's  wildpipe  made  chase. 
To  Apollo's  harp  piano 
Swayed  the  quiver  of  Diana. 
Down  the  wood's  track  to  the  glen 
All  the  troupe  went  dancing  then : 
When  Gods  are  social,  so  are  men. 

Neptune's  trident  surely  shook 
From  the  mountain  slide,  the  brook 
That  spills  down  the  cairn  and  cavern, 
Near  the  short-lived  drinking  tavern, 
By  whose  stone  foundations  course 
Springlets  up  without  a  source, 
Cool  as  evening  mists  distil ; 
Cooler  yet  where  bursts  a  rill 
In  the  roadlet  down  the  height, 
Like  a  naked  beam  of  light, 
Or  a  mountain  bather  naked. 
Chilled  by  tourists  overtak^d. 

As  upon  a  roof's  descent 
Pigeons  cluster  confident, 
On  this  mountain  pitch  to  sing 
The  Olympians  drank  the  spring 
And  beneath  them,  deep  and  long, 
Earth  heard  the  Libation  song. 


148  POEMS 


JOVE 


Mortal !  friend !  down  from  my  height 

I  salute  thy  gallant  worth  ! 
Rain,  Alluvial,  Dew  and  Light 

My  libations  to  thee.  Earth ! 
Back  to  me  reciprocal, 

Thou  libation  sendest  up : 
Faithful  son,  thy  prodigal 

Father,  Jove,  drains  mutual  cup ! 

JUNO 

Nephew !  often  in  thy  night 

To  thyself  thou  slumb'rest  dull, 
I  stoop  o'er  thee  with  my  light 

And  I  see  thee,  beautiful. 
And  I  know  when  I  am  old 

Welcome  in  thy  home  I'll  be : 
In  her  chalice  flashing  gold, 

Hearty  Hera  drinks  to  thee ! 

THE   GODS 

Cousin  !  take  this  pledge  from  us, 

As  through  youth  thy  genius  plods : 
Steady  and  industrious 

Thou  art  pattern  to  all  Gods  ! 
In  thy  orbit  spaced  afar 

Bravely  all  thy  lights  are  set. 
Glory  to  thee  !  little  star ! 

Thou  may'st  sway  thy  system  yet ! 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  149 

"Hist !  "  spoke  Pan.  "  The  Dunkers  I  smell ! 
Grandfather !  whisker  us  by  thy  spell !  " 
Whiskers  were  on  us  in  a  flash, 
All  but  the  shaven,  beau  moustache. 
"  Now,"  cried  Pan,  "  as  his  special  treat 
That  one  Mortal  shall  wash  our  feet ! 
Sunday  Love  Feasts  please  these  churls, 
Washing  the  feet  of  the  men  and  girls." 

I  was  girt  with  a  napkin  swift : 

Juno's  foot  stretched  out  from  her  shift. 

She  as  a  convert  was  slightly  chipper  — 

I  thought  I  had  pulled  down  the  Great  Dipper. 

Iris's  foot  was  a  blue-veined  bow ; 

A  silver  thimble  was  Hebe's  toe ; 

Diana  ne'er  had  shed  but  by  candle 

The  deerskin  shank  of  her  corded  sandal ; 

Pallas-Athena  was  flat  on  the  sole ; 

Venus's  foot  was  sleek  as  a  mole ; 

All  the  Muses  declaimed  together 

To  be  assisted  out  of  leather; 

Meek  were  the  Graces  for  heavenly  powers  ; 

Fidgety  feet  had  the  three  young  Hours. 

Parian  cold,  from  celestial  fountains, 

"  Beautiful  feet  upon  the  mountains  I  " 

I  preached  in  tingled  soul,  when  through ; 

Apollo's  wood  dove  cooed  "  Cuckoo  !  " 

Leathern  scabbard  a  lady's  boot, 
Gleaming  sword  is  her  naked  foot, 
Armorers  tempered  it  express 
Duelling  blade  of  her  loveliness. 
Hand  in  hand  is  a  soothing  sense, 


160  POEMS 

Frank  young  foot  is  a  confidence. 
Women  none  were  there  at  meat 
When  they  washed  Disciples'  feet, 
Had  they  brightened  that  repast 
Would  the  Supper  have  been  the  Last  ? 

Dunkers,  new  to  the  situation, 
Muttered  that  man  was  an  innovation 
The  feet  of  Schwesters  to  dry  and  cool. 
Jove  said  ours  was  a  later  school. 
Languid  after  the  foot-bath  rites, 
Nectar  sufficed  for  our  appetites : 
Cider  of  pears  it  seeemed  to  me 
Or  honey  and  water  stung  by  a  bee. 
"  Give  us  ad  wise  !  "  chirped  old  St.  John. 
The  Dunkers  hearing  the  hymn  were  gone 

APOLLO   TO   THE   DUNKEKS 

Not  everything  is  God's  ! 

Beware  the  levity 
To  think  Olympus  nods 

When  trifles  trouble  thee  ! 
Take  to  the  Gods  thy  joys ! 

Take  to  thyself  thy  moan ! 
When  life's  fulfilment  cloys, 

The  failure  is  thine  own. 

Some  other  life  had  been 

A  substitute  for  thee : 
Blessed  art  thou  of  men, 

By  love's  fortuity ; 
The  bee  that  finds  his  queen 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  151 

High  in  the  golden  light, 
Dies  in  that  heaven  serene 
For  love's  wild  appetite. 

So  grasp  life's  real  span, 

Nor  cheat  thyself  with  dreams, 
Thou  planetary  man  I 

What  is,  is  but  what  seems. 
A  dead  man's  helpless  hand 

Can  never  heal  thy  sore.^ 
So  live  to  understand  : 

Thy  children  may  live  more. 

The  beauteous  evening,  red  and  pale. 

Moved  slowly  up  the  golden  dale. 

"  Come  forth,  sweet  Nymphs  !  "  Pan  softly  blew ; 

"We  saw  their  fire-fly  eyes  shine  through 

The  bosky  woods,  their  shoulders  gleam 

Out  of  the  dripping  spring  and  stream, 

In  every  rock  and  shaggy  tree 

Coquettish  sensibility. 

The  charmed  snakes,  autocthones  ran, 

Gliding  from  serpent  forms  to  man ; 

Tree  crickets,  members  of  liis  quire. 

Resounded  to  Apollo's  lyre  ; 

Diana's  silver  quiver  spilled 

Her  arrows  where  the  wise  owl  trilled,  — 

Minerva's  bird ;  and  round  us  browse 

Mercury's  herd  of  mountain  cows. 

Jove  drew  me  from  those  twinkling  elves  — 

All  priests  are  gentle  by  themselves. 

^  Healing  by  a  dead  man's  hand  is  one  of  many  mouutain 
superstitions. 


152  POEMS 

"  Now,  tell  me,  Zeus !  why  do  men, 
When  born  of  women,  fall  again  ?  " 

"  Son,  why  do  rocks  melt  mto  sands 
Unless  to  soften  fertile  lands  ! 
Climbing  to  fall,  the  circle's  revel, 
That  once  was  Nebulous  and  level. 
Vigor  ascends,  a  radiant  star. 
To  slide  in  pleasure  back  as  far ; 
No  depths,  no  heights,  no  fall,  no  rise. 
No  female  and  no  destinies. 
Heaven  is  a  lazy  dream  of  statics  ; 
The  Sibyls'  books  are  mathematics. 

"  My  sect  calls  me  the  great  First  Cause 

And  proves  it,  by  my  breaking  laws ; 

Gods  no  occasion  had  to  be 

Unless  to  aid  society. 

What  need  of  Gods  for  blank  and  dearth  ? 

Olympian  Gods  succeeded  Earth. 

Man  was  the  model  made  in  clay, 

We  were  the  statues  made  to  stay : 

What  made  us  ?     Matter  I     Not  some  Spell ! 

Spell's  Gods  are  immaterial. 

O  Ignorance  I  reversing  laws 

And  calling  impotence,  the  Cause  ! 

Nothing  sustains  thy  faith's  far  end, 

But  Something  is  irreverend ! 

Was  Light  made  first  out  of  the  night? 

Thou  knowest  Matter  to  be  Light ; 

Matter  the  whirler  and  the  ball. 

And  quenchless  Matter  made  us  All. 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  153 

"  Why  am  I,  alien  from  my  parts, 

In  minds  of  scholars  still  a  force  ? 
I  supervised  real  arts 

And  was  the  soul  of  intercourse. 
Not  when  my  sway  was  imbecile. 

Did  I  all  people  drown  but  one, 
And  millions  let  go  wild  until 

I  thought  to  give  myself  a  son ; 
My  happy  reign,  my  temples  grand, 

For  Popes  the  Cliristian  artist  paints : 
I  was  the  Genius  of  my  Land 

And  made  my  family  its  saints." 

Now,  by  the  old  burnt  tavern's  site 
It  seemed  there  was  a  country  fight, 
And  to  my  feet,  by  discord  thrown, 
There  fell  an  apple  hke  a  stone ; 
Three  ladies,  Venus,  Juno,  Pallas, 
Ran  after  it  with  pretty  malice, 
And  each  one  pleaded,  "  Give  it  me  !  " 
Said  Jove :  "  Name  thy  divinity !  " 

The  apple  could  its  mistress  read. 
Attracted  toward  her  by  its  seed. 
Had  apples  three  been  on  the  stem 
The  ladies  three  had  taken  them. 
But  like  to  Eve,  I  had  but  one. 

And  One  was  in  my  heart  alone. 

In  simple  mind,  a  Paris  man, 

(Not  taking  cue  from  winking  Pan), 

I  said  to  Venus,  without  art, 

*'  What's  mine  is  thine,  my  old  sweetheart ! " 


164  POEMS 

"  Nature,"  said  Jove,  "  is  always  wit : 
Venus,  he  is  no  hypocrite !  " 
"  Paris  I  knew,"  she  said,  "  in  France : 
Come  be  my  partner  in  the  dance !  " 

Now,  as  it  chanced,  the  thickets  from. 
Were  Dunkers  playing  Peeping  Tom, 
With  mountaineers,  whom  Jove  abhors 
To  eavesdrop  on  his  visitors ; 
Their  wild  beard  tufted  from  their  throats, 
Jove  turned  them  all  to  billy-goats ; 
Then  on  the  turf  beside  the  spring 
Jove  led  off  with  a  Highland  Fling. 
The  Muses  and  Wood  Dryads  met 
In  a  dec6rous  minuet. 

Venus  with  buskin  like  a  glove. 
In  somnolent,  mesmeric  move, 
Grew  to  me  as  the  woodbines  creep 
Or  dreams  glide  in  the  mind  asleep. 
Drowsy  the  breath  she  drank  of  mine 
And  hers  inspiring  as  a  wine. 
Her  motion  passive  but  as  close 
As  to  the  rose  stem  hangs  the  rose. 
Submission  is  the  female  might. 
Her  yielding  coy  and  recondite  : 
When  in  the  waltz  I  turned  her  round 
I  seemed  to  bear  her  from  the  ground. 
She  brimmed  my  being  with  her  mould 
And  we  were  timid  more  than  bold, 
Though  on  my  breast  her  little  brain 
Lay  like  a  throb  of  parting  pain. 


SOUTH  MOUNTAIN  155 

«  Thy  horse  !  "  the  Goddess  faintly  sighed, 
«  Give  me  the  night  wind  !  let  ns  ride  ! 
My  rivals  watch  us  and  their  hate 
Means  something  evil  in  your  fate." 

Her  wish,  straightway,  unto  us  brings 
Billy,  Bellerophoned  with  wings  ; 
She  raised  her  foot  my  hand  unto 
And  in  my  palm  she  left  her  shoe. 

Out  in  the  air  and  o'er  the  knolls 

Catoctin's  ragged  valley  bowls. 

We  sprang  so  high  that  o'er  both  heights 

We  saw  the  pulsing,  pearly  lights. 

Amid  the  plain  with  hamlets  thick. 

Of  Hagerstown  and  Frederick. 

The  earth  dropped  smaller  yet  and  far. 

We  entered  in  a  glowing  star ; 

Its  scented  atmosphere  we  clove 

And  rested  in  the  planet.  Love. 

I  felt  a  chaste,  maternal  kiss 

And  sighed  'twixt  holiness  and  bliss. 

«  Look  out ! "  spoke  Venus,  "  do  not  fear ! 

See  of  thy  system  every  sphere  !  — 

And  each  does  every  other  draw  : 

Attraction  is  eternal  law. 

So  thou  selected  Venus  well ; 

In  equilibrium  is  her  spell. 

She  is  the  tender  influence 

Of  centre  and  circumference. 

Be  to  thine  own  attraction  true. 

And  to  thy  friend  will  fit  my  shoe  ! " 


156  POEMS 

I  woke  next  morn  at  Gapland  Hall 
And  found  black  Billy  in  his  stall. 

But  though  my  story  is  all  true, 
I  cannot  fit  that  Venus  shoe. 


WASHINGTON  CITY  POEMS. 


THE   SMITHSONIAN 

See'st  thou  the  Abbey  of  warm  stone 
On  the  green  island,  orient  red? 

What  does  it  here  in  States  our  own, 
When  feudal  Priors  long  are  dead  ? 

Its  Baron  like  the  Norman  was 
Unto  high  dukes  of  bastard  kith, 

And  gave  his  fortune's  overplus 
Beneath  the  royal  name  of  Smith, 

To  us,  the  land  of  guardian  hope, 

That  he  a  conqueror's  rank  would  score. 

And  have  his  Ishmael  brethren  cope 

With  them  who  Learning's  peerage  bore ; 

Whose  cold  cabal  denied  him  space 
And  made  him  unto  dice  betake : 

The  gamesters'  nature  saves  the  race, 
And  sacred  issues  play  a  stake. 

In  foreign  exile  plighting  troth, 
To  powers  occult  he  gave  his  word 


'""Vf»S,T 


THE  SMITHSONIAN  157 

(A  gracious  devil  took  his  oath) 

"  The  voiceless  tyros  shall  be  heard ! 

"  My  two  proud  parents,  wilful  willed, 
Did  shame  and  gold  on  me  entail : 

I  will  to  bastard  Science  build 

An  Abbey  heaven  shall  aye  assail !  " 

And  first  Respect  refused  the  trust 

And  Patriarchy  did  control, 
Fire  laid  the  battlements  m  dust 

And  all  the  fund  the  People  stole. 

They  built  anew  the  abbey  towers 
Around  the  purpose  so  grotesque 

And  into  Gothic  tracery  flowers 
A  fortalice  of  Romanesque. 

And  Merlin  is  its  resident, 

Aladdin  its  conspu-ator, 
Its  regent  aye  our  President, 

Lord  Justice  its  High  Chancellor. 

What  vested  fear  would  fain  repress 
Within  came  forth  lite  vagrant  rats 

And  cavernous  influences 

Worked  in  the  Abbey  like  the  bats. 

Original  ideas  found 

A  publication  never  given, 
A  distribution  underground, 

A  circumvention  over  heaven. 

New  mischiefs  to  facilitate 

And  lead  the  earth  some  young  turmoil, 


158  POEMS 

The  Abbey  spirits  ruminate 

Around  a  magnet's  serpent  coil ; 

Where  humble  finders  rank  their  peers 
And  Aristotle's  laws  dispute ; 

A  newsboy  pulls  the  Mufti's  ears 
And  mocks  the  Royal  Institute. 

For,  o'er  that  Abbey  devil's  jag 
A  genii's  banner  flaunts  its  creed ; 

The  unheraldic  people's  flag 

Waves,  of  the  hordes  unpedigreed ; 

Their  parents  did  beget  them  snug 
And  secondary  made  the  rite. 

They  see  not  with  the  sleek  and  smug 
But  with  the  gift  of  second  sight ; 

They  see  refractedly  from  straight, 
At  no  precedent  Afrite  fright'ning, 

As  into  Paradise's  gate 

The  Peri's  zigzag  glance  of  lightning. 

They  diagnose  the  pretty  fibs 

The  old  nurse  tells  her  nubile  boy. 

As  in  the  horse's  wooden  ribs 

The  Greeks  the  gossip  heard  in  Troy. 

This  Abbey  rests  not  pilgrim  heads 
But  sets  tall-shafted  thoughts  a  plinth 

And  lends  the  clues  that  wind  the  threads 
Through  Nature's  wizard  labyrinth. 

The  pre-historic  man  it  brings, 

Who  knew  not  metals  but  in  stone 


THE  SlflTHSONIAN  169 

Reveird  with  implemental  Kings 

And  thought  the  golden  age  his  own. 

"  Ha !  ha ! "  the  Prior  laughs  in  glee, 
"  Who  cares  for  thunder,  bell  or  ban  ? 

Matter  is  immortality 

And  no  one  knows  the  age  of  man ! 

"  Ay !  thou  Sesostri,  come  and  see 

The  myths  these  Western  mounds  declare ! 

Oasis  made  society 

And  Adam's  birth  was  everywhere. 

"  If  fifty  thousand  years  had  gone 

Ere  to  this  skill  his  hand  could  school, 

How  long  was  it  to  human  dawn 
Before  the  monkey  made  a  tool?  " 

Lo !  there  the  Prior's  museum 

To  mock  man's  sole  decline  and  fall ! 

Where  forward  to  perfection  come 
His  mechanisms,  one  and  all. 

From  wheels  that  are  not  circular 
And  scoopfed  boats  of  idiot  wit. 

To  telescopes  trailed  on  a  star 
That  magnify  and  mirror  it. 

See !  when  the  long  tree  shadows  wave 

In  the  electric  lantern's  track. 
The  fallen  Prior's  lost  conclave 

In  their  Satanic  suits  of  black, 

Gather  within  the  Abbey  red, 

Around  some  vampire  snail  or  mole. 


160  POEMS 

As  if  it  were  of  lioly  dead 

And  the}^  were  seeking  for  its  soul ! 

See'st  tliou  the  slitted  windows'  height 
On  which  the  sunset  broke  its  heart? 

Within,  they  burn  the  pictured  light 
That  spoiled  the  churchly  Raphael's  art ! 

And  see'st  thou  the  battlements 

From  which  bright  fancy's  angels  fall 

In  gravity's  incontinence 
And  flight  unanatomical  ? 

Go  not  within  or  say  a  prayer 
By  cerements  of  Pharaoh's  corse ! 

The  skull  of  wizard  Lincoln's  there 
And  incantation  tools  of  Morse. 

So  this  loose  gotten  son  of  dukes 
Himself  a  dispensation  swears, 

Stands  not  with  peers  in  their  perukes 
Nor  lets  Delilahs  clip  his  hairs, 

But  from  the  grave's  green,  grassy  withes, 
He  burst  a  Samson,  love-betrayed. 

And  heading  the  heroic  Smiths, 
Among  the  Titans  flings  his  shade. 

I  hear  the  sprinkled  church  bells  ring ; 

I  see  on  Freedom's  dome  her  fire : 
I  will  go  cite  this  Abbey's  King 

Though  he  may  curse  me  in  his  ire : 

"  Ho,  Prior !    On  thy  door  I  smite  ! 

This  Battle  Abbey  who  begun  ?  " 
"  William  the  Norman  I  am  Tiight : 

Robert  the  DeviVs  bastard  sony 


MABT  OF   THE   CAPITOL  161 

MARY   OF  THE   CAPITOL 

"  One  of  our  senators,  surely  ?  " 

Said  the  queer  old  girl  to  me ; 
I  answered  to  her  demurely 

"  Only  a  Member  you  see." 
"  There  is  something  dear  about  you," 

She  said,  with  an  ag^d  bloom,  — 
"  Were  I  young  I  would  never  doubt  you : 

Is  this  your  Committee  room?" 

"  Come  in  !  "  I  said  to  the  lady, — 

'Twas  a  Saturday  hoKday  — 
"  Shut  the  door !  it  will  be  more  shady  : 

Are  you  December,  or  May  ? 
Whichever,  a  magnetism 

You  shed  on  my  widower  life. 
Your  eyes  are  of  crystal  chrism,  — 

You  make  me  think  of  my  wife." 

«  O  thank  you !  that  sounds  so  holy ! 

To  many  a  wife  I  have  been, 
Though  ever  the  wayward,  lowly. 

And  penitent  Magdalene ; 
But  ever  my  Lord  and  Master 

I  knew  from  his  kingly  ken  : 
'Twas  my  glory  and  my  disaster, 

To  worship  the  Congress  men. 

"  Some  women  for  sailors  tarry, 

Some  are  vivandieres  in  the  camps, 

Some  Virgins  are  Wise  and  marrj^ 
Some  are  Foolish  and  trim  no  lamps ; 


162  POEMS 

American  or  Roman, 

Since  this  bright  world  began, 
The  proper  place  for  woman 

Is  where  she  comforts  Man !  " 

Reluctant  admiration 

My  cold  thoughts  melted  through : 
"  I  see  that  you  love  our  Nation  ?  " 

"  I  love  all  the  men  who  do ! 
Great  men  deserve  love  younger,  — 

More  beauteous  than  men  common. 
And  ardently  did  I  hunger 

To  be  some  patriot's  woman. 

"  I  heard  a  trumpet  sounded 

In  my  quiet  countryside, 
I  followed  the  note  as  it  bounded  — 

Se  loved  me  here  and  he  died,  — 
Died  while  my  youth  betrothing  ; 

Our  souls  were  as  pure  as  flame. 
O,  could  I  drop  to  nothing  ? 

Or  should  I  be  true  to  Fame  ? 

"  Next,  an  old  benevolent  gentle 

And  a  Senator  called  me  his, 
He  was  moral  rather  than  mental 

But  he  had  a  grandfatherly  kiss ; 
I  found  he  was  somewhat  roving 

And  it  seemed  just  a  little  ingrate, 
So  I  paid  him  off  in  loving 

A  dashing  young  Delegate. 

"  His  State,  it  was  soon  admitted,  — 
Not  I  to  the  wedded  state ; 


MABY  OF   THE   CAPITOL  163 

But  his  frailty  I  pardoned  and  pitied, 

And  called  it  political  fate. 
Then,  a  Christian  statesman  named  me  his  spotise, 

His  church,  and  his  bride  of  affairs ; 
He  set  me  up  in  a  furnished  house 

And  helped  me  to  say  my  prayers. 

"  They  came  from  near  and  they  came  from  far, 

Bright  spu'its  born  to  control. 
As  into  a  well  burns  a  glorious  star 

Their  ardor  drank  up  my  soul ; 
None  dared,  none  needed,  my  love  to  buy, 

And  my  beauty  lasted  well, 
I  yield  to  love  my  aged  sigh  — 

Love  is  too  sweet  for  hell. 

"  Smile  not !  I  bear  my  testament. 

Though  not  just  the  one  who  should, 
That  women  are  queer  and  different, 

But  all  of  the  men  are  good ! 
Whenever  this  poor  old  life  of  mine  ends, 

I  vow  by  the  angels  above, 
I  parted,  with  one  and  all,  good  friends. 

And  never  did  spite  to  love ! 

"  Thank  you !  a  little  wine  is  good : 

My  head  it  is  weak  to-da3% 
Kind  friend,  say,  am  I  misunderstood? 

See  I  am  so  old  and  grey ! 
Let  all  your  charity  abide. 

And  Christ-like  may  you  prove  ! 
Here  is  a  woman  poor  in  pride 

But  rich  as  God  in  love  !  " 


164  POEMS 

Her  face  grew  long,  her  sight  was  dull, 

Down  sank  the  old  grey  head. 
The  old  belle  of  the  Capitol 

Within  its  walls  was  dead. 
Still  follow  Gods,  who  most  forgive, 

The  loving  and  unclean. 
And  where  the  public  heroes  live 

There  loves  the  Magdalene. 

CLOTURE 

1893. 

The  Senate  sloths  sit  up  to-night  — 

Dear  Kitty  come  with  me  ! " 
The  crowded  Capitol  was  bright, 

Dark  was  our  gallery ; 
They  crowded  me  and  Kitty  so. 

Her  courage  to  assure 
My  arm  around  her  waist  I  throw : 

«  The  subject  is  Cloture.'' 

"  How  mad  they  get,"  said  Kitty  soon, 

"  On  matters  so  demure  ! 
They  rush  upon  each  other  close, 

Is  that  not  like  Cloture  ?  " 
"No,  This  more  like  that  thing  occult" — 

She  cuddled  up  demure  : 
"  I  hope  we'll  come  to  some  result 

And  early  pass  Cloture.'' 

Nought  did  we  hear  that  blessed  night 

Yet  sat  in  perfect  bliss  ; 
When  noise  and  wrath  were  at  their  height 


CLOTUEE  165 

Cloture  concealed  a  kiss  : 
"  Are  you  in  favor  of  repeal ! 

I  think  'tis  quite  obscure." 
"  Light  up  the  subject  with  your  lips  !  — 

Dear  Kitty,  press  Cloture  ! 

"  Why  do  we  need  so  much  Reserve  ? 

I'm  sure  we  are  secure. 
I  think  more  faith  would  give  them  nerve,  — 

And  therefore  more  Cloture.^' 
"  Kitty,  our  circulation's  high, 

This  panic  may  endure. 
And  Legal  Tender's  in  my  eye 

If  you  but  say  Cloture  f  " 

At  panic  prices  we  drove  back,  — 

That  Herdic  tilted  sure  ; 
Kitty  came  sliding  down  the  hack 

And  all  went  on  cloture : 
"  I've  changed  my  mind ;  'tis  nice  to  wait,  — 

Engagements  can  endure. 
But  never  let  them  close  debate 

While  viQ  can  have  Cloture^ 


166  POEMS 


GAPLAND   POEMS 


GUY  LOSEL 


Guy  Losel's  heritage  in  hand, 

He  had  a  daring  thought  to  rove, 

And  pleasure  find  from  land  to  land 

In  an  inconstancy  of  love ; 

He  said  Farewell  to  one,  his  dove, 

Round  whom  his  springtime  hlood  had  purled,  - 

Her  heart  was  his  did  he  command ; 

She  was  too  modest  to  reprove 

His  flourish  cool,  "  I'm  going  round  the  world ! 

So,  unengaged,  he  did  depart, 
Handsome  and  liberal  and  clever, 
Though  with  some  twinges  at  his  heart 
From  Mary's  beauty  so  to  sever ; 
But  frowardness  is  selfish  ever 
And  Mary's  singleness  he  trusted. 
He  named  Experience  and  Art 
The  vagrant  quests  of  his  endeavor : 
Forbidden  fruit,  —  it  was  for  that  he  lusted. 

He  threw  himself  in  British  revels. 
They  had  the  pall  of  Mammon's  play ; 
French  demoiselles  were  painted  devils, 
The  Belgic  idols  broken  clay. 
Yonder  and  farther,  yet  away, 
Of  flaxen  Swedes  Guy  Losel  sated 


GUY  LOSEL  167 

And  pined  in  Pommeranian  levels ; 

The  Viennese  were  soulless  gay. 

Spain's  lazy  loose,  they  all  were  pawned  or  mated. 

Europe  exhausting,  lonely,  lost,  — 

Spite  of  his  wish  a  Benedict,  — 

Guy  Losel  heathen  waters  crossed. 

Himself  of  pleasure  to  convict. 

He  would  be  loved  in  candour  strict 

Where  conscience  lax  allowed  of  freedom. 

Arab,  Egyptian,  Moor,  they  tossed 

Mocking  deceit  him  to  afflict, 

And  left  his  heart  a  wilderness  of  Edom. 

"  Is  there  no  land  where  pleasure  reigns 
And  love  halts  not  its  choice  to  ponder  ?  " 
"  Not  here,  for  here  love  has  fond  pains,  — 
'Tis  in  the  next  land,  —  yonder !  yonder ! " 
The  Persians,  Guy  was  told  were  fonder ; 
The  Persians  pointed  Ind  to  him  ; 
The  Hindoo,  Java's  lapse  explains  ; 
Javans  at  China's  frailty  wonder, 
And  China  says,  "  Pleasures  in  Yedo  brim." 

«  This  world  is  better  than  its  fame. 

Each  heart  seeks  one,  so  I  have  found  it. 

I  have  the  only  heart  to  blame 

In  all  the  world  —  I  have  been  round  it. 

Some  broken  heart,  I  may  compound  it. 

Exchanging  with  it  my  desire. 

But  love  is  never  safe  with  shame. 

One  heart  I  left  —  O  did  I  wound  it  ?  — 

Dear  Mary's  heart !    There  are  no  hearts  for  hire." 


168  POEMS 

Guy  Losel  hasted  to  his  city ; 

Mary  was  blooming  like  the  rose, 

Blushing  and  dSbonnaire  and  witty ; 

He  lost  no  moment  to  propose  : 

Her  face  grew  pale,  her  lips  shut  close : 

"  I  am  engaged,"  at  last  she  spoke, 

"  You  wrote  me  not."     "  O  God !  in  pity. 

Reclaim  thy  word !  assuage  my  woes  ! 

If  I  have  not  thy  heart,  my  heart  is  broke ! " 

Penance  he  did ;  back  round  the  earth 
In  spirit  crawled.     The  time  was  long. 
Cold  was  his  heart  and  eke  his  hearth. 
When  vows  are  passed  the  chain  is  strong. 
But  woman  loves,  though  man  is  wrong : 
She  could  not  leave  him  solitary. 
The  night  of  anguish  waked  to  mirth, 
His  sighing  ceased  in  wedding  song. 
The  land  of  Houris  was  the  land  of  Mary. 


TANGIER 

Farthest  away  in  space  and  time, 

I  take  in  this  Columbian  year 

One  day  its  winding  lanes  to  climb  — 

The  ancient  city  of  Tangier. 

Old  was  it  in  Mahomet's  dawn, 

Old  when  the  Csesars  ruled  these  shores ; 

Since  ancient  nations  have  withdrawn 

The  oldest  people  are  the  Moors. 


TANGIEB  169 

Tarifa's  towers  our  eyes  release ; 
Gibraltar's  outlines  grow  more  soft, 
The  pillars  fade  of  Hercules 
And  Atlas  holds  the  world  aloft ; 
Atlantic's  gales  the  billows  high 
The  open  roadstead  dash  upon, 
Beyond  the  breakers  props  the  sky 
The  mountain  named  for  Washington. 

He  tribute  paid  to  these  corsairs, 
Wild,  nervous  men,  who  know  not  fear, 
And  while  we  Christians  mutter  prayers 
Row  to  the  beach  of  old  Tangier ; 
Row  past  her  mole,  Tangier  her  dower,  — 
The  sea  reflects  the  shivered  beam,  — 
When  English  Charles,  Braganza's  flower 
Sultana  made  of  his  hareme. 

The  turbaned  Customs  men  scarce  nod. 
The  saw-toothed  walls  their  gates  retain, 
We  climb  the  street  that  Musa  trod 
When  Tarik  plucked  the  cross  from  Spain  ; 
A  thousand  years  we  backward  stem  — 
The  sight  our  modern  age  dispels  — 
We  are  in  old  Jerusalem 
When  Jesus  told  the  parables : 

The  potter  shapes,  the  blind  man  grieves. 
The  palsied  woman  starts  to  walk. 
And  yonder  marked  the  Forty  Thieves 
On  Ali  Baba's  door  with  chalk ; 
Aladdin's  uncle  bawls  his  lamps, 
The  barber  bleeds  them  who  would  shear, 


/ 


170  POEMS 

The  camel  drivers  pitch  their  camps 
Outside  the  walls  of  old  Tangier. 

I  see  the  Koran  teacher's  school, 
Where  little  hairless  heads,  like  eggs 
Some  pelican  would  overrule, 
Wag  to  the  texts  he  in  them  pegs ; 
And  the  high  caller  unto  prayere 
Does  not  disturb  him  who  recites 
Tinkling  his  bell,  on  di'owsy  airs, 
Tales  from  the  soft  Arabian  Nights. 

The  squatted  Berbers  dreamy  chant 

In  a  caf^  some  desert  troll, 

Love  is  their  sole  intoxicant 

And  on  its  kiss  no  alcohol. 

In  hidden  haunt,  less  lewd  than  poor, 

With  lancing  height  and  bowstring  thew, 

The  antelopfed,  hussy  Moor, 

Dances  with  filly  of  the  Jew. 

In  little  shops  their  prices  quote 
Dealers  in  arms  and  stuffs  and  balms : 
"  All  merchants  cheat,"  Mahomet  wrote, 
"  Therefore  do  ye  requite  in  alms." 
Though  in  the  mosques  we  may  not  see, 
Their  sociahsm  feel  we  may ; 
Religion  is  of  Arabs  three,  — 
Moses,  Mahomet,  Joshua ! 

His  amputated  hand  in  salt, 
In  the  high  jail,  a  festering  man 
Dies  slowly  for  his  desperate  fault,  — 
The  robber  of  the  caravan  ; 


TANG  IE  B  171 

No  lawyers  here  acquit  a  thief, 
Nor  wealth  ill-gotten  can  illude 
Him  at  Maroc,  the  Great  Shareef, 
Who  is  of  Mahmoud's  holy  blood. 

Plain  as  the  desert  round  Tangier, 
Whose  paths  the  cactus  does  not  shade, 
Are  the  few  laws  they  need  them  here. 
Where  are  no  engines  grasping  trade  ; 
One  tyrant  answers  for  a  brood, 
And  immemorial  is  his  right, 
Marked  like  the  palm's  tall  sohtude 
Against  the  Atlas  mountain's  height. 

Morocco's  state  leans  on  the  sky. 
Its  moon  and  stars  the  Arab's  light, 
No  Ottoman's  fell  victory 
Here  has  usurped  a  cahph's  right ; 
For  Muley  Hassan's  banner  green 
He  did  not  get  by  barbarous  force ; 
It  streams  like  yonder  green  marine 
That  bounds  in  freedom  like  his  horse. 

Can  we  not  blend  with  Islam's  life 
Our  Christian  slavery,  so  complex  ?  — 
The  scullions'  rule,  the  dress-thralled  wife, 
And  houses  built  to  tax  and  vex  ? 
Thou  desert  robber !  my  cloak  great 
Strip  off !  it  loads  me  like  a  chain ; 
To  pass  thy  enemy  in  wait 
I'll  go  with  thee,  miles,  one  or  twain. 

But  climate,  moisture,  living  chance, 
More  than  his  Gods  make  man  excel : 


172  POEMS 

O  had  Arabia  conquered  France 

She  had  made  gracious  Charles  Martel !  — 

Softened  the  vandal  Christian's  clan 

That  malt  and  mead  had  muddled  thick, 

And  knighted  into  Solyman 

The  lame,  black  soul  of  Genseric. 

Beneath  my  blind"she  cannot  pierce, 
A  tall,  young  Berber  mother  slips. 
Her  babe  she  drops  in  hunger  fierce. 
She  draws  a  knife,  her  face  she  strips. 
And  cuts  some  grass  around  my  inn,  — 
Her  clean  and  stringy  lines  I've  booked  ; 
'Tis  by  her  creed  a  deadly  sin 
That  on  her  charms  a  man  has  looked ! 

Such  Moors  their  conqueror  Akbah  bought 

With  gold,  a  thousand  pieces  each. 

To  blend  their  Arab  grace  with  thought, 

O,  could  their  like  some  Soldan  teach 

Woman's  religious  hate  to  cease. 

That  curses  Christians  passing  through ! 

At  Tafilet  to  treat  a  peace 

And  loose  the  slaves  at  Timbuctoo. 

With  such  sweet  airs  as  Westward  blow, 
From  lands  where  zealots  rage  in  vain. 
The  States  of  Barbary  might  know 
A  wealth  they  never  had  in  Spain  ! 
Their  beauteous  women  might  be  free. 
Their  shambles  might  again  be  homes  ! 
As  when  the  Gods  of  poetry 
Were  rich  Numidia's  and  Rome's. 


BOB   WHITE 


173 


Like  desert  springs  wMch  flood  with  rain, 
These  Berber  wastes  the  sects  outpoured 
That  deluged  Islam's  star  in  Spain 
And  withered  it  like  Jonah's  gourd ; 
Preachers  like  Balaam  and  his  ass 
Their  sinewy  state  a  sect  made  be : 
They  see  the  ships  of  Europe  pass,  — 
Wild  Ishmaels  of  theology. 

This  fragment  of  a  former  age 
Thrust  into  Europe's  feverish  breath, 
Is  like  our  childhood's  limpid  page. 
Or  unawakening,  restful  death. 
No  wheels  nor  mechanisms  here. 
We  have  no  adventitious  power, 
And,  like  the  dead  in  dead  Tangier, 
Naked  we  shall  be  in  that  hour  1 

BOB   WHITE 

I  HEAR  in  the  orchestral  morn, 
Midst  the  flute,  the  jewsharp  and  the  horn, 
A  bird  with  a  note  like  a  vote, 
Straight  and  sweet  from  the  throat ; 
Like  the  voice  from  the  light  after  night : 
"  Bob  White." 

I  know  'tis  the  Quail  calling  so, 
But  his  language  is  English,  I  know ; 
How  human  the  bird  with  that  word ! 
By  my  heart  it  is  heard  — 
Like  friendship  by  love  done  despite, 
"  Bob  White." 


174  POEMS 

The  friend  of  his  youth  he  would  find, 
There's  no  name  but  his  friend's  on  his  mind, 
His  life  is  all  boyhood  and  joy,  — 
What  is  constant  as  boy  ?  — 
O,  my  friend  of  the  mom  and  the  light, 
Bob  White !  — 

I  roved  through  the  stubble  with  thee. 
Barefooted,  to  hawbush  and  tree, 
By  brook  and  by  vale  like  the  Quail ; 
Every  day  without  fail 
I  called  at  thy  gate,  early  bright. 
Bob  White ! 

You  answered,  dear  partner,  my  bleat. 
Like  the  mate  of  the  Quail  from  the  wheat, 
My  heart  to  your  halloo  pursuant. 
To  school  or  to  truant. 
You  parted  from  me  not  till  night. 
Bob  White. 

The  orchards,  the  fields,  they  were  ours. 
And  the  sky  and  the  seed  and  the  flowers, 
The  farmer,  not  we,  paid  the  tax ; 
At  the  sound  of  his  axe 
Low  whistled  our  warning  or  fright : 
"Bob  White!" 

Where  are  you,  my  chum,  all  these  years  ? 
Has  the  world  swallowed  you  in  its  fears  ? 
Or,  mated,  say,  have  you  a  flock  ? 
Are  you  hen  now,  or  cock  ? 
Do  I  hear  you  out  yonder  aright. 
Bob  White? 


QUEEX  CHRISTINE  175 

If  you,  O,  the  sweet  notes  again, 
Raise  them  boldly,  whom  ever  thy  hen  !  — 
Say,  '•  Madame,  that  friend  was  my  first. 
In  the  dawn-hoiir  of  erst. 
And  he  called  me,  ere  you  were  my  sprite, 
'  Bob  White ! '  " 

Then  I  will  forget  night  and  bhght  — 
Do  you  hear  how  I  whistle.  Bob  White  ? 
O,  lonely  are  all  things  in  truth. 
But  the  birds  have  our  youth. 
Say  on,  make  me  boy,  set  me  right. 
Bob  White ! 


QUEEN   CHRISTINE 

FOTJKDEE.    OF    DELAWAEE    STATE 
FOXTAISEBLEAU,  1657 

Father,  is  he  dead  ?     Then  I'll  confess  me  : 
His  period  is  my  pause  where  Aftertime 
Will  lay  my  book  down  and  consider  me. 
You  shall  be  my  posterity  and  judge ! 

I  had  no  child  but  Sweden  and  foreswore  it; 
Homeless  by  choice,  I  chose  a  homeless  staff 
From  generosity ;  the  man  just  slain 
Monaldeschi,  was  nothing  but  a  servant. 
Marquis  I  made  him  like  the  ]\[arquis  Ancre, 
King  Louis'  father  slew.     Italian  like 
He  mixed  in  my  concerns,  my  lonely  state 
Unpitymg,  set  his  wits  to  work  to  spoil 
My  independence  ;  forged  his  comrade's  hand 


1T6  POEMS 

And  traded  in  my  livery  like  a  traitor. 

His  plot  he  brought  me  :  'twas  assassination  ; 

Thinking  a  Queen  ten  years  o'er  Sweden's  council 

Could  be  so  shallow.     "  Let  me  execute  him  !  " 

The  jockey  swore.     The  table's  turned :  he's  dead. 

His  lesson  is  not  lost  on  Latindom. 

Let  women  twit !     Christine  was  crowned  a  King. 

Defence  I  scorn,  whose  court,  like  old  King  Lear's, 
Is  where  I  visit.     Am  I  yet  a  nun  ? 
Vasa's  resentment  certain  as  his  justice 
"Wakes  in  his  grandson's  child.     Father  and  son 
I  executed,  ere  I  abdicated. 
For  prodding  my  resignment  ere  its  time. 
Absolute  Queen  I  pass  from  throne  to  Pope, 
No  subject  anywhere,  my  rent  crown  lands, 
My  confidence  state  secrets  ;  treason,  death ! 
She  who  of  late  by  armies  executed, 
Visited  kings  with  thunders,  dyeing  rivers 
Blood  red,  was  gloriously  commended ; 
Heretic  then  she  was,  but  worth  conversion. 
This  day  I  sentenced  one,  —  but  one,  —  all  shrived, 
Who  articled  with  me,  and  mutinied. 

What  did  my  Judas  sell  ?  That's  perished  with  him: 
I  trapped  him  ere  he  bit.     Was  he  my  lover? 
Cowards  will  say  so  for  two  hundred  years. 
Eve  had  it  said  of  her,  all  nature's  mother. 
Listen,  thou  priest !    'Twas  Knowledge  bit  us  both. 
Knowledge  has  bit  thy  church.     At  Westphalia 
I  forced  to  peace  the  Thirty  Years  of  war. 
And  Toleration  was  my  crown.     Therefore 
I  took  the  cross  in  Lenity's  crusade, 


QUEEN  CHBISTINE  177 

To  minimize  the  consequence  of  creeds, 
Nor  ever  have  I  Sweden  asked  to  follow. 

I  went  to  Rome  to  help  the  milder  dawn, 
When  warring  sects  shall  merge   their  strength 

for  earth, 
And  fill  the  moats  of  feudal  states  with  Heaven, — 
Sunlight's  illusion  on  the  cold-throned  Alps, 
Mass's  illusion  in  smug  churchmen's  hearts. 
Women's  illusion  in  their  sex-sick  heads,  — 
Heaven,  not   hell,  makes  earth  yawn  wide  from 

man. 
And  draws  its  small  portcullises  of  churches 
Upward  or  down  like  selfish  castellans. 

My  filial  shame  was  Christ's  triumphant  day : 
A  white-horsed  Amazon,  the  penitent 
Rode  like  Alaric  or  the  Vandal  king 
Through  Rome :  Herodias  with  her  father's  head. 

Then  French  and  Spanish  parties  played  for  me. 

Like  Pilate's  Roman  dicers.     Up  I  gat 

With  my  small  suite  and  sought  politest  France. 

Italians  ruled  it ;     Mazarin,  step-monarch. 

His  nieces,  queens.     Ladies  wore  warriors'  crowns. 

None  felt  my  sarcasm  when  the  magdalen, 

Ninon  de  I'Enclos,  mistress  of  an  abb^, 

I  singled  out  and  wrote  around  her  shme : 

"  Frondeurs  unsinning !  shng  the  first  stone  here  !  " 

The  woman  is  a  plant,  her  flower  early, 
Her  reproduction  her  biography. 
My  mother  pined  and  died  for  her  Gustavus ; 
His  only  child  I  was,  to  wear  his  sword ; 


178  POEMS 

His  sister  had  a  son  who  wooed  me  hard ; 

I  felt  the  Vasa  jealousy  of  partners 

And  fed  my  brain  and  let  my  bosom  starve. 

My  mind  had  no  companionships  in  Sweden  : 

I  sent  abroad  for  scholars.     Soon  contempt 

Of  amorous  thought  withered  my  wedding  wreath. 

Our  Lutherans  were  lusty,  women  forward ; 

Magnus,  my  fancy,  wedded  Charles's  sister ; 

I  promised  Charles  my  crown  without  my  hand 

And  formed  the  Order  of  the  Amaranth, 

The  monks  and  nuns  of  Learning ;  one  stood  fast. 

My  frame  grew  steel,  my  mind  became  all  man : 

Monaldeschi  trifled  with  an  Amazon. 

But  I  have  proved  the  sexes  have  reversion  — 
And  from  Minerva's  brain  Mars  can  be  born : 
The  King  I  chose  has  rounded  Sweden's  bounds 
And  beaten  Poland.     Scania  is  a  fief 
Of  the  Roman  empire  and  Clu-istina  ends 
Semiramis,  like  Margaret  of  the  North. 

The  Woman  left  in  me  was  my  Conversion : 
I  tired  of  sermons  but  to  woo  my  soul 
Was  an  amour,  sweet,  timorous,  and  sighful, 
Like  the  annunciation  of  the  Virgin. 
Spain,  Portugal,  the  Pope,  sent  pursuivants 
Who  talked  in  liquid  tongues,  which  I  had  learned 
Without  a  master,  of  supernal  love. 
Long  I  coquetted  with  those  Jesuits, 
Resisted,  threw  them  off,  returned  and  yielded, 
And  never  told  the  soft  solicitation : 
One  woman  kept  a  secret ;  it  was  pure. 
To  learn  our  fate  we  seek  the  fortune  teller 


QUEEN  CHBISTINE  179 

Who  promises  it  all :  Rome  outbid  Luther. 
We  know  not  much ;  on  them  who  swear  they  know 
We  lay  our  doubts :  Rome  has  one  Swede ;  she, 
Rome. 
Rome's  civil  law  and  Koster's  printed  bible, 
Fermented  in  rude  states ;  the  age  is  loosed : 
High  intellects  are  readjusting  knowledge. 
The  Northern  Schools  Kepler  and  Tycho  Brahe 
Have  graduated  to  revise  the  lights 
And  Earth's  circumferential  to  her  Sun. 
Rome  has  reformed ;  Christine  reforms  to  Rome, 
To  be  Hypatia  to  the  fading  Gods. 

The  year  my  father  fell  in  Lutzen  fight 
Old  Galilei  did  abjure  the  truth 
In  Rome.     No  more  will  Rome  science  suppress. 
Intolerance  will  take  its  stand  in  France 
And  from  this  old  chateau,  who  knows,  but  Louis 
Will  shame  his  grandsire  Henry  more  than  I 
Gustave  Adolphus  ?     Priest-kings  are  the  worst. 
I  will  against  intolerance  be  Protestant 
In  Rome  itself.     The  earth  awakes  from  sleep 
By  revolution.     France  may  turn  too  swift. 

Who's  yonder  ?     Henriette  of  England  comes ; 
Cromwell  supplies  the  head  of  her  and  Charles. 
Von  Wallenstein  took  counsel  of  the  stars 
But  fell  like  Monaldeschi,  Captain-slashed. 
The  forest  here  has  a  Black  Huntsman  in  it. 
King  Henry's  apparition  ere  he  died ; 
There  will  I  ride  alone,  who  ne'er  saw  ghost. 
How  indolently  safe  to  trust  one's  priest ! 


180  POEMS 

Nature  !  I  sighed  thee  that  I  had  no  babe  ! 
There  was  one,  Little  Sweden,  that  I  swaddled 
In  the  new  world ;  its  mart  was  named  for  me. 
The  Dutch  have  taken  it  and  changed  the  name ; 
In  neither  Sweden  have  I  left  a  chick. 

Error  preserves  us  often,  like  misfortune. 
The  wayward  child  is  still  the  best  beloved. 
I  took  my  crown  off  for  sweet  Independence. 
Fashion  I  like  not ;  business  wore  me  out. 
I  will  be  humble  when  I  live  in  Rome. 

Meantime  these  French  who  bought  my  father's 
death 
Shall  keep  me  for  two  years  at  their  expense ! 
I  will  resume  my  study, — true  devotion; 
My  books,  —  the  holy  graves  of  saints ;  myself,  — 
Portent  of  learning  in  the  female  plant. 
As  Mazarin  collects  his  books  for  France, 
I  will  become  Rome's  vestal  bibliophile, 
Cumsean  sibyl  for  new  oracles. 
The  riddle  of  the  woman  who  shall  bruise 
The  serpent's  head,  bear  children  and  be  ruled 
By  her  desire  of  husband,  therein  lies, 
As  in  the  Sibyl's  books  Christ  was  acrostic. 

The  negative  of  man  is  his  child-bearer. 

The  serpent's  head  is  this  small  female  head, 

Which  coils  on  man's  and  has  no  separate  growth ; 

The  quickening  contact  mounts  not  to  her  reason. 

Diana's  priestesses  had  each  one  breast ; 

One  was  too  many  for  symmetric  art 

And  Sappho's  lyre  was  lovesick.     Woman  grew 


QUEEN  CHRISTINE  181 

Half  on,  with  single  breast,  and  Greece  was  dam 
To  the  strong  brood  of  woman-minded  thoughts, 
In  the  harmonious  temples  of  her  head ; 
That,  draggled  through  the  Arab  caliphs'  lusts, 
Glanced  off  from  Spain  and  lodged  in  Italy, 
And  on  the  barren  rock  of  Peter  grew 
The  lillied  Renaissance.     Still  negative 
Is  woman,  led  by  France  and  fashion  down 
Below  the  stature  of  her  column's  head : 
Man  grows  a  tree  and  woman  grows  a  vine 
And  chokes  the  tree  of  Knowledge.     Earth's  o'er- 
brooded ! 

All  faiths  that  are  have  superstitious  ends. 
Earth  has  no  end  in  its  continual  sphere. 
Material  truths  one  day  will  be  a  faith, 
When  woman  comprehends  and  holds  the  ground 
That  man  has  won.     The  vast  negation  waits. 

When  I  was  at  Nykoping,  Oxenstiern,  — 
A  greater  mind  than  Richelieu's,  but  in  Sweden,  — 
Gave  me  a  dog  called  FidSs,  saying  "  Chris., 
Thou  learn'st  too  much  from  books;  learn  from 

this  setter ! " 
We  had  an  Echo  on  the  water  there ; 
My  dog's  bark  barked  at  him  and  the  first  night 
He  barked  all  night  at  Echo.     The  next  night 
FidSs  kept  all  awake.     My  aunt  cried  "  Kill  him !  " 
"  'Tis  his  devotion,"  said  my  uncle  John, 
"  He  Avorships  at  the  unaccountable." 

How  ghostly  seem  we  to  ourselves  in  mirrors 
At  dusk,  as  they  reflect  our  coming  shade ! 


182  POEMS 

In  dusk  I  ferried  Fides  tow'rd  his  Echo. 
I  spoke  myself  one  name  for  the  last  time ; 
«  Magnus." 

Art  listening,  priest? 

(He  is  asleep. 
The  death  he  has  seen  done  this  hour  prostrates 
him.) 
The  rest  I'll  tell  to  Echo,  whispering  here, 
In  the  long  halls  where  Henry  kissed  Diana 
In  Rondelet's  fireplace,  where  kiss  quenched  flame^ 
In  her  Initial,  Henry  is  the  cipher. 
She  subdued  him  when  Dauphin,  nineteen  years 
Her  junior.     But  she  married  at  thirteen  ; 
Widowed  at  thirty-two  :  it  is  my  age  ! 
She  was  re-born  and  turned  a  man  in  love. 
Once  in  an  age  old  woman  has  her  reign. 
(Would  I  had  tilted  with  Montgomery ! ) 
The  renaissance  at  Fontainebleau  was  Love. 

Mary  of  Scots  was  here  a  bride  and  Philip 

Of  Spain  did  wed  his  murdered  son's  affianced ; 

Francis  was  satyr  to  his  market  girls  ; 

Navarre  in  love-war  met  his  Ravaillac. 

Kings  get  no  more  than  peasants  from  the  sex  ! 

The  furious  love  scenes  painted  by  Italians 
Are  just  effaced  by  Anne  of  Austria, 
Lest  Mazarin  admire  them  more  than  her. 
In  this  chateau,  where  art  was  stripped  to  Isis 
A  hundred  years  ago,  they  stand  me  off. 
Who  am  an  honest  monk,  a  maiden  queen. 

When  brother  Guises  in  some  such  chateau 
Were  foully  stabbed,  the  Valois  line  expired ! 


QUEEIf    CHEISTINE  183 

My  traitor  wore  a  corselet  like  a  woman, 
His  sentence  paralyzed  his  lizard  tongue. 
I'll  whisper  to  this  sleeping  priest  my  secret,  — 
God's  drowsy  ear,  the  old  maid's  deaf  confessor. 

'Twas  play  for  Poland,  which  the  Jesuits 
Have  made  another  Spain,  and  smothered  knowl- 
edge, 
Has  been  the  silent  secret  of  my  soul  ! 

Sweden  is  flanked  by  Denmark,  our  oppressor ; 

Poland  and  Russia  are  conjoined  with  it. 

Jagellon's  Ime  concluded  with  a  woman 

Who  wed  my  father's  uncle,  John  of  Vasa ; 

Sweden  and  Poland  were  their  son's  demesnes,  — 

Sigismund.     Re  would  force  the  Poles'  religion 

Upon  our  Lutherans,  who  did  depose  him. 

The  Dissidents  he  persecutes  in  Poland, 

Its  Huguenots,  who  do  solicit  me 

To  be  their  Henry  of  Navarre  and  join 

Against  the  Russians  our  united  powers. 

Else  Russia  will  devour  both  Swedes  and  Poles. 

I  must  be  Catholic  if  Queen  in  Poland ! 

I  set  my  cousin  Charles  upon  my  throne, 
He  in  my  secrets  as  my  ardent  lover. 
To  shatter  Denmark  and  Kiag  Sigismund, 
And  stepped  me  down,  a  wondrous  Catholic. 

Learning  had  taught  me  silliness  of  churches : 
Religions  are  the  national  costumes. 
More  silken  Southward  and  more  woollen  North. 
I  could  afford  to  humor  them  I  vanquished, 
They  were  not  subtle  to  discern  my  play. 


184  POEMS 

Like  FidSs^  Echo  from  the  farther  side 
Returned  to  this,  as  I  to  it  went  nearer 
(The  dog  did  reason  it  when  he  was  hoarse). 
"Who  shall  chase  Echoes  from  opposing  shores  ? 
What  of  Christine  is  altered  by  exchanging 
The  creed  of  Odin  for  the  creed  of  Venus  ? 
The  toasted  babes  in  Thirty  Years  of  war 
Called  on  the  motherhood  in  my  dry  milk 
To  taste  the  sacrament  that  I  had  humbled, 
As  Jesus  dipped  with  John.     Not  by  the  Cross 
But  by  the  Dove  was  ^vrit  the  sign  of  Conquer  ! 

Poland,  Bohemia,  Sweden,  Hungary, 

Beneath  a  woman's  love,  would  wall  the  Tartar 

And  Bear,  out  of  Midgarden's  paradise : 

I  wished  to  be  the  tolerant  queen  of  Poland ! 

Lest  this  might  be,  the  Jesuits  mine  equerry 
Hired,  —  Monaldeschi,  —  to  snook  over  me. 
I  caught  him  with  my  letters,  trapped  him  here. 
And  send  his  ghost  to  Rome  to  give  me  awe ! 

Rome  wUl  sit  squat.     Her  morals  are  Conversion. 

Public  Opinion,  ever  absolute, 

In  midnight  tyranny  as  in  the  day, 

Now  has  Christine  beneath  its  microscope  : 

Poland,  I  fear,  is  frozen  from  my  love  ! 

The  woman's  reign  in  Eden  was  not  long ; 
The  curse  of  children  was  her  balance  wheel. 
Sweden  is  lost  to  me ;  Poland  affrighted ; 
Rome  is  uneasy  with  its  roving  convert: 
I  have  no  other  home.     Father,  awake  ! 
Absolve  Rome's  daughter  from  her  passing  sin ! 


CLOY  185 

WASHINGTON'S   MONUMENT 

LONG  UNFINISHED 

Sunk  in  the  sands  by  its  own  weight,  the  Sphinx 

Intelligible  lies  ;  its  nobler  part,  — 

That  sweet,  great  face  —  still  touching  every 
heart, 
That  'midst  the  lonely  ruins  walks,  and  thinks 

On  perished  states,  made  perfect  by  such  art. 
But  thou!  our  Sphj-nx, — lone  column,  strong  and 
white. 

When  this  our  empire  totters  to  decay. 
The  senile  riddle  of  thy  broken  height 

And  feeble  unfulfillment,  who  shall  say  ? 

"A  race  unstable  and  degenerate,"  they 
Who  pass  may  cry,  "  here  sought  some  shrine  to 
lift  — 

Not  such  as  carved  complete  yon  wondrous  disk 
In  Egypt,  but  some  brood  ingrate  with  thrift. 

And  souls  unfinished  like  this  obelisk !  " 

1871. 

CLOY 

As  the  Earth  is  surrounded 

By  naked  air. 
Life's  sphere  is  bounded 

By  an  azure  care  ; 
Only  moments  of  time 

Is  the  rainbow  bended, 
And  wherever  we  climb, 

The  world  is  ended. 


186  POEMS. 

There's  a  hopelessness 

In  careers  succeeding, 
More  than  the  distress 

Of  the  dying  and  bleeding 
The  nature  which  scaleth 

Cathedral  towers, 
Hears  nearer  where  waileth 

The  tolling  hours. 


ROCKING   CHAIR 

'Tis  not  Diana  on  her  bow 

I  seem  to  see,  so  straight  and  spare,  ■ 
A  lady  moving  to  and  fro 

So  calmly  in  a  rocking  chair. 

Like  some  old  clock's  slow  pendulum, 
Her  wavy  line,  her  features  fair, 

Across  my  memories  go  and  come,  — 
The  lady  in  the  rocking  chair. 

In  woman's  realm,  a  little  home,  — 
Her  little  arc  of  life's  career,  — 

I  see  sweep  past  her  silver  comb ; 
The  lady  in  the  rocking  chair. 

It  makes  me  weep,  it  makes  me  sleep, 
That  gentle  motion  •  tell  me  where 

I  felt  it  o'er  the  ocean  deep  ?  — 
Dear  mother,  in  thy  rocking  chaii- ! 


SANCTUMONIOUS  187 

SANCTUMONIOUS 

The  Editor  and  Writer  met  in  Twilight's  lonely- 
lane, 

Bohemian  and  Sadducee,  enforced  to  meet  again : 

"  When  next  we  walk,  successful  friend !  the  dark- 
ness will  he  deep  "  ; 

Said  the  Bohemian,  "  Tell  me,  now,  what  have 
you  done  to  keep?" 

"  My  self-esteem,  my  spotless  work,  my  influence 

austere  ! 
I  edited  the  Higher  Thought,  the  economic  seer ! 
Never  to  error  did  I  stoop  and  when  the  State 

must  fall. 
Let  history  consult  my  files  :  I  did  predict  it  all. 

"  You  wrote  and  lived  incontinent ;  I  had  to  let 
you  drop ; 

And  still  you  are  a  rolling-stone  and  I  the  per- 
fect stop ; 

The  ink-di'ops  from  my  Draco's  pen  fall  like  the 
gibbet's  rope 

And  splash  into  that  stoic  blank  where  but  Bo- 
hemians hope." 

Finished  the  sinless  Sadducee  and  the  Bohemian 
said, 

"  The  measure  of  a  fellow's  length  is  taken  when 
he's  dead. 

I  have  had  all  of  life's  good  things  yet  never  wor- 
shipped me ; 

You,  born  with  introverted  eyes,  Avorshipped  your 
cavit3\ 


188  POEMS 

"  You  superseded  God  at  school,  j'our  country  later 

on; 
Plenty  of  earth  you  have  possessed  but  none  of 

horizon. 
My  talent  I  have  not  improved ;  I  kept  it  in  my 

hand: 
Mine  is  the  faith  my  fathers  had  in  my  dear,  native 

land! 

"  One  drop,"  the  old  Bohemian  said,  "  within  its 

channel  strong, 
I  mingle  in  the  mighty  tide   and  with  it  move 

along, 
I  have  no  other  creed  than  this,  no  power  of  my 

own : 
Flow,  beauteous  river !     Not  in  thee  have  ever  I 

thrown  a  stone  !  " 

From  Twilight  lane  they  parted  last,  the  years 
were  growing  dark; 

Neither  upon  the  century  left  more  than  finger 
mark ; 

"  Silentia "  was  the  epitaph  upon  the  scolding 
man, 

But  all  the  bands  of  music  play  past  the  Bo- 
hemian. 


KESPECTABILITY 

Perhaps  I  owe  to  my  temerity 

Some  lost  advantages  of  little  force ; 

At  life's  outgoing  they  mil  quit  my  corse, 


DYING  LETTEES  189 

I  shall  have  seen  what  I  desired  to  see, 
Eye-single,  not  with  Ishmael's  remorse. 
But  by  the  beam  of  nature  given  me. 
Some  question  Shakespere  for  his  way  apart, 
Because  invited  little  by  the  great ; 
He  kept  his  pedigree,  a  country  heart. 
And  laureated  was  to  illustrate. 

Than  imitation  is  no  meaner  fate. 

To  be  respectable  is  not  to  rise ; 

There  is  a  strength  that  does  not  borrow  state, 

It  is  to  serve  the  light  within  thine  eyes. 


DYING  LETTERS 

Heke  strangled  in  the  West 

See  gentle  Letters  lie ! 
Where  he  had  hoped  the  best 

Despair  is  in  his  eye. 
'Twas  Mammon  stabbed  him  first 

And  piracy  severe, 
The  gash  that  bled  hun  worst 

Was  dealt  him  by  a  sneer. 

»  Go  to  !  "  says  worldly  wise, 

"  What  time  have  we  to  read? 
The  past  is  full  of  books,  — 

Enjoy  the  present  deed ! 
Down  with  ideal  things  ! 

Melt  down  the  wizard  bell ! 
Strike  off  the  poet's  wings !  ^^ 

We  still  can  buy  and  sell." 


190  POEMS 

Yes,  for  ye  all  are  sold 

To  what  your  souls  despise,  — 
The  avarice  of  gold 

And  small  anxieties ; 
To  wives  who  spend  and  pine 

And  scandals  base  discuss, 
To  sons  who  die  in  wine. 

And  daughters  frivolous. 

Read  not  or  wanton  read. 

That  wanton  dreams  may  be  ! 
Have  authors  like  your  need. 

Serfs  of  3^our  pleasantry ! 
Here  strangled  in  the  West 

See  gentle  Letters  lie  !  — 
"Where  he  had  hoped  the  best 

Despair  is  in  his  eye. 


RICHARD,    0   MY  KING 

VERSAILLES,    OCTOBER  3,  1789 

0  Richard,  O  my  king ! 

Beneath  thy  prison  bars 

1  touch  the  lute's  light  string, 

Soft  as  the  light  of  stars ; 
They  steal  into  thy  sight, 

Unto  thy  soul  I  sing : 
Awake  !  O  captive  knight ! 

O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 

QChoru8,  repeat.^ 
O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 


RICHARD,  O  MY  KING  191 

O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 

Not  of  thine  arms  I  sigh ; 
The  love  to  thee  I  bring 

Is  of  thy  Poesy. 
Thou  king  of  troubadors  ! 

List  to  the  night  bird's  wing, 
And  twang  thy  prison  bars, 

O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 

O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 
•    The  air  it  is  thine  own, 
Made  in  thy  life's  young  spring 

Before  thou  had'st  a  throne ; 
Then  music  filled  thy  heart 

Far  more  than  anything,  — 
Thy  sceptre  was  my  Art, 

O  Richard,  O  my  king  ! 

0  Richard,  O  my  king ! 
Thy  voice  is  singing  now ; 

1  hear  its  deep  notes  ring 

Like  stormwind  on  the  bough. 
Song  pierced  thy  stone  redoubt, 

'Tis  thy  recovering  : 
Thy  song  has  found  thee  out, 

O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 

(^Chorus,  repeat.') 
O  Richard,  O  my  king ! 


192  POEMS 


MIRROR   SONG 

FROM  DECATUR,  AN  OPERA 

The  lily's  mirror  is  the  pond, 
The  rose's  mirror  is  the  dew, 

The  empress's  the  diamond, 
And  in  my  mirror  I  see  you. 

O  am  I  fit  for  you  to  cull  ? 

In  your  eyes  am  I  beautiful? 

Your  glorious  strength  shall  I  consume, 

And  with  my  weakness  make  perfume  ?  - 

Our  features  blend  as  man  and  wife 

And  flower  in  immortal  life  ? 

The  star  has  mirrors  in  the  air. 
The  rainbow,  mirrors,  in  the  rain, 

But  thou  art  mirrored  everywhere. 
In  all  my  bliss,  in  all  my  pain  ! 

0  let  me  gaze  upon  the  charms. 
Worthy  to  enter  in  thy  arms  ! 
My  mind  is  but  a  giddy  scroll, 
My  beauty  is  my  only  soul,  — 

Be  thine  career  !  the  glorious  strife  ! 
Take  me  in  thy  immortal  life ! 

Thy  fame  has  mirrors  in  the  crowd. 
Thy  courage  shines  in  thy  cuirass. 

The  guns  reflect  thy  victories  loud : 
My  echo  is  my  Looking  Glass. 

O,  till  thou  drink  me  in  thy  kiss, 

1  no  assurance  have  but  this,  — 
That  I  am  fit  to  blend  with  thee. 


AMEBIC  AN  SLAVES  IN  TBIPOLI     193 

My  face  in  immortality 

"With  thine,  whose  eyes  reflect  thy  wife, 

In  crystal  of  immortal  life  ! 

AMERICAN   SLAVES   IN   TRIPOLI 

1805 

Farewell,  our  native  land  ! 

Farewell,  O  fresheninor  sea ! 
We  choose  the  suffocating  sand 

To  shame  and  liberty. 
Earth  shall  not  rue  that  we  existed,  — 

This  is  our  one  reply : 
We  swore  to  die  when  we  enlisted. 

Go,  show  us  where  to  die  ! 

Perhaps  our  cheerful  parts, 

Our  hearty  work,  our  songs, 
May  soften  our  taskmasters'  hearts 

And  mitigate  our  wrongs. 
On  honest  bread  we  have  subsisted. 

We  would  not  terrify. 
We  swore  to  die  when  we  enlisted, 

Go,  show  us  where  to  die ! 

Where'er  we  go  our  name, 

Our  land's  example  wins, 
Degraded  realms  we  shall  reclaim 

And  soften  Jacobins ! 
Unfurl  the  flag  that  we  assisted ! 

Dear  country,  hear  our  sigh !  — 
We  swore  to  die  when  we  enlisted, 

Go  show  us  where  to  die ! 


194  POEMS 

SHAKESPERE'S   FRIENDS 

FROM  TALBOT'S  HAWKS.  A  ROMANCE 

Beneath  the  roots  of  these  old  trees 

That  shade  the  river  bends, 
There  lie  the  buried  images 

That  once  were  Shakespere's  friends  ; 
As  still  as  in  his  theatre, 

Beside  their  thrilling  dames, 
They  never  stir,  beneath  the  fir. 

That  lulls  the  river  James. 

The  vine,  whose  dye  of  royal  red, 

The  locust  tree  ascends. 
Takes  splendor  from  the  perishdd 

That  once  were  Shakespere's  friends ; 
His  mind  luxuriant  seems  to  bloom, 

His  ardent  nature  flames. 
And  from  their  charnel  sheds  perfume 

Along  the  river  James. 

Around  their  rest  no  hates  endure, 

His  noble  mind  forf ends  — 
The  holy  rites  of  Literature 

Were  said  o'er  Shakespere's  friends  ; 
They  talked  the  lofty  style  he  wrote 

And  coursed  heroic  fames, 
And  through  the  Tempest  sailed  their  boat 

Unto  the  river  James. 

These  saw  the  bard  a  man,  hke  them. 
Though  so  his  scope  transcends 


SONGS   OF   YOUTH  195 

That  we  would  think  his  garment's  hem 
Was  kissed  bj  Shakespere's  friends ; 

But  poor  disciple  fishermen, 
That  fancy  lifts  to  fames, 

Were  no  more  apostolic,  then, 

Than  those  who  fished  the  James. 

If  men  would  of  his  Scripture  learn 

Life's  universal  ends,  — 
Bend  o'er  this  old  colonial  urn, 

That  once  held  Shakespere's  friends ! 
There  is  for  each  his  own  career. 

But  dust  for  all  our  aims,  — 
Imagination  bounds  our  sphere  ; 

Life  is  the  city,  James. 

Yet  far,  afar,  dissolving  forms 

Will  find  infinite  blends, 
Like  to  the  moisture  in  the  storms. 

The  dew  of  Shakespere's  friends  ; 
The  globe,  evaporate,  goes  on, 

Itself  the  mote  reclaims. 
And  nought  is  lost  when  all  is  gone : 

Bloom  on !  O  city  James  ! 


SONGS   OF   YOUTH 

The  songs  I  wrote  when  I  was  young, 
I  did  not  think  were  good ; 

I  sat  me  down  to  write  some  songs, 
When  life  was  understood. 

But,  everywhere,  the  bright  and  fair, 


196  POEMS 

To  my  first  numbers  sprung,  — 

They  did  not  want  my  songs  of  care, 

But  songs  I  made  when  young. 

The  love  I  made  when  I  was  young, 

Was  not  love  dehonnaire  ; 
I  thought  love  would  refine  its  tongue 

When  I  could  love  prepare ; 
But,  everywhere,  the  bright  and  fair, 

I,  stranger,  seemed  among  ; 
They  did  not  want  my  sober  air, 

But  love  I  made,  when  young. 

The  travels  made  when  I  was  young, 

Were  not  in  wisdom's  way. 
Again  I  travelled  in  those  lands 

In  life's  meridian  day ; 
But,  everywhere,  the  bright  and  fair. 

My  lonely  heartstrings  wrung  ; 
My  settled  thoughts  they  did  not  share. 

But  thoughts  I  had,  when  young. 

Song,  Love,  and  Travel !  ye  are  young. 

And  I  am  almost  old. 
The  golden  bell  vibrates  when  rimg, 

The  cracked  old  bell  is  tolled. 
Ye  young  and  fair !  my  time  beware ! 

In  morn's  bright  Arc  be  swung ! 
Wait  not  for  evening  time  to  pair, 

Life's  life  is  but  life  young. 


NEW  ENGLAND  197 

NEW   ENGLAND 

(TO  JOHN  GODFREY  MOORE) 

New  England's  head  is  cool, 

Her  heart  a  living  spring, 
Her  hand  a  tempered  tool, 

Her  throat  was  made  to  sing, 
Her  genius  comprehends, 

Her  habits  ever  steady, 
Her  means  embrace  her  ends. 

Her  spunk  is  right  and  ready. 

She  did  conceive  our  land 

A  Continental  nation. 
She  made  the  mighty  stand, 

She  forced  the  Declaration, 
She  gave  us  clocks  to  heed. 

She  set  the  West  in  motion. 
She  made  our  fathers  read, 

Her  food  fields  were  the  ocean. 

Wherever  went  her  sons 

The  mill  wheels  churned  the  waters, 
The  spin  wheel  swifter  runs 

For  her  free-jointed  daughters, 
Her  poverty  can  lend, 

She  never  is  depender, 
A  teacher  or  a  friend 

New  England  is  the  lender. 

Who  blames  her  that  she  strove 
To  be  the  saint-elected? 


198  POEMS 

As  from  the  brain  of  Jove 
Minerva  was  projected? 

Idealist  alone, 

She  drew  her  out  of  Edom ; 

A  Book  is  still  her  throne, 
Her  influence  is  Freedom. 

Fatter  are  others'  fields ; 

Her  dower  is  some  duty. 
Her  rocky  verdure  yields 

The  most  transcendent  beauty. 
Organic  as  some  realm 

And  scented  like  a  blossom, 
Her  spread  is  hke  her  elm. 

The  Mayflower 's  in  her  bosom. 


UNSERVED 

Our  nation  leads  the  age 

But  every  man  is  drafted. 
The  mighty  heritage 

Into  our  sap  is  grafted  ; 
We  somewhat  know  our  wives 

And  know  our  children's  faces 
And  when  old  age  arrives 

We  have  no  resting  spaces. 

'Tis  money  makes  our  friends, 
Its  want  our  disconsoling, 

Life's  sweet  endeavor  ends 

When  ends  our  burden-rolling; 

The  evening  hour  is  dull, 


UNSERVED  199 

'Tis  sleep  or  dissipation, 
For  home  life  beautiful 
"We  made  no  preparation. 

The  poor  they  know  us  not ; 

Our  servants  haste  to  leave  us  ; 
Our  wealth  has  them  forgot, 

Their  free-born  thoughts  perceive  us  ; 
Our  distance  they  respect. 

We  are  our  money's  sequels, 
Deserting  us,  select. 

They  seek  their  hearty  equals. 

I  think  upon  a  time 

The  kitchen  was  our  play-house, 
The  cliimney's  whitewashed  grime 

'Twixt  air  and  home,  half-way  house, 
Our  orphan  bounden  maid 

The  sweetheart  that  we  read  to. 
And  ere  compelled  to  bed, 

Her  loving  lap  we  fled  to. 

Her  dishes  washed,  she  walked 

Into  the  high  folks'  sitting ; 
She  and  the  old  cook  talked 

With  mother  round  the  knitting  ; 
Our  neighbors  did  not  start 

Nor  look  oui-  "  help's  "  demission,  — 
It  was  as  if  some  heart 

Played  shuttle  through  condition. 

Little  we  knew  that  maid 
Had  source  so  sentimental : 


200  POEMS 

Her  mother  was  betrayed, 

Her  father  was  a  gentle. 
Wealth  does  no  more  allow 

Those  tender  patronages, 
And  foreign  convicts  now 

Eat  all  our  poor  folks'  wages. 

In  outskirt  huts  I  note 

The  laborer's  straight-limbed  daughters. 
Wild  music  in  their  throat, 

And  leap  of  mountain  waters ; 
They  never  seek  his  door,  — 

The  poor,  rich  man  they  border,  — 
Both  poor  and  rich  are  poor. 

Without  a  Servant  order. 

Helpless  our  lady  hears 

Her  kitchen  tales'  distresses. 
With  diamonds  in  her  ears 

And  only  silken  dresses. 
Untaught  with  heart  to  speak, 

In  nature's  sister  spirit, 
Unto  her  sex's  meek, 

Who  shall  her  earth  inherit. 

What  patriotic  guild. 

Exploiting  past  condition. 
Can  match  the  woman-willed 

In  wife's  or  daughter's  mission  ?  — 
Morgiana  to  set  free, 

'Neath  Ali  B  aba's  eaves, 
Who  served  the  family. 

And  boiled  the  Forty  Thieves  ? 


MOBMON'S    OLD    WIFE  201 


MORMON'S   OLD  WIFE 

Abed,  and  failing  and  old  and  gray, 

On  the  thirtieth  morn  of  her  wedding  day,  — 

First  wife  in  time,  but  the  ninth  in  number, 
Old  Betsy  Perkins  awoke  from  slumber ; 

And  she  heard  the  bells  of  Salt  Lake  shedding 
Their  melody,  over  her  husband's  wedding ! 

This  morn  he  wedded  the  tenth  young  spouse, 
In  the  cloisters  of  the  Endowment  House ; 

One  fair  enough  midst  the  daughters  of  men, 
To  make  an  old  man  gallant  again ; 

For  he  in  the  church  was  a  reigning  star. 
One  of  the  Twelve  and  a  Counsellor, 

And  many  missions  had  made  him  wise, 

And  deepened  the  lights  in  his  handsome  eyes. 

While  she,  bedridden,  with  babes  and  cares, 
Lost  the  rose  from  her  cheeks  and  the  brown  from 
her  hairs ; 

Lost  hope  and  husband,  and  all  but  belief 
In  the  church  of  the  Saints  and  the  might  of  its 
chief. 

And  the  wedding  bells  were  strong  and  sharp 
As  arrows  shot  from  the  chords  of  a  harp. 


202  POEMS 

Ah  !  tenderer  bells  had  pealed  for  her 
That  wedding  morn  in  Exeter, 

When  in  the  Parish  Church  she  stood, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  womanhood. 

And  trustfully,  heartily,  gave  her  all 

To  the  strong  young  blacksmith,  frank  and  tall ;  — 

His  silver  watch  his  thrift  confessed ; 

A  nosegay  smartly  bloomed  on  his  breast ; 

His  Cornish  accent,  deep  and  queer, 

Like  Psalmist's  melody  thrilled  on  her  ear ; 

Of  reverent  mind  and  serious  fashion. 

His  love  had  something  more  than  passion ;  — 

And  she  felt  on  his  broad  breast,  anchored  fast, 
The  peace  that  understanding  passed. 

Now  over  her  grey,  adob^  home, 

The  Wahsatch  mountains,  dome  on  dome, 

Alone  kept  sentry ;  their  snowy  spears 
Had  changed  no  feature  in  twenty  years  — 

The  rills  that  babbled  about  her  lot 
Talked  cold  in  the  orchards  of  apricot ; 

And  her  sight  grew  dim  in  the  lonely  days, 
Like  the  vale  of  Deseret  lost  m  the  haze. 

Alone,  neglected,  her  daughters  the  prize 
Of  solemn  Bishops  and  "  Seventies  " ; 


MORMO:S''S   OLD  WIFE  203 

Her  sons  engrossed  in  their  wives  and  farms 
And  her  husband  sealed  in  a  maiden's  arms, 

She  cried,  "  Oh !  blessed  Master  above  ! 
This  morn  of  my  weddmg  I  perish  for  love ! 

"  I  am  chill  and  blind.     Let  me  lean  once  more 
On  the  breast  that  received  me  so  gladly  of  yore ! 

"  If  ever  my  heart  cried  its  pain  and  hmiger. 

To  see  him  look  down  m  the  eyes  of  one  younger, 

"  Or  uttered  my  crushed  love's  agony 

To  hear,  oft  repeated,  the  vow  made  to  me, 

"  When  happy  in  girlhood  my  bridegroom  stood  by 

me, 
This  prayer  of  my  old  age,  my  Saviour !  deny  me ! 

"  Not  all,  but  a  moment  of  love  I  entreat. 

To  hear  on  my  thi-eshold  the  soimd  of  his  feet, 

"  To  hide  on  his  bosom,  and  die  on  his  kiss  — 
Oh,  Jesus  !  thou  comforter,  grant  me  but  this  !  " 

The  light  on  the  mountains  grew  dark  as  she  spake, 
And  the  rills  of  the  canons  that  ran  to  the  lake ; 

As  cold  as  the  Jordan  in  winter,  the  room. 
And  like  snow  on  the  fire  died  her  hope  in  the 
gloom. 

But  a  hand  like  a  lover's  she  felt  in  her  palm 
And  a  voice  that  was  healing,  spoke  out  of   the 
calm: 


204  POEMS 

"  Oh,  weaiy  and  laden  one,  come  unto  Me  I 
Your  prayer  it  is  answered ;  your  love  you  shall 
see." 

By  the  bedside,  all  brightness,  One  beautiful,  stood, 
But  the  prints  on  His  feet  and  His  side  were  like 
blood. 

But  like  the  ideal  she  had  wept  to  embrace, 

The  groom  of  her  gii-lhood  He  seemed  by  His  face. 

And  she  cried :  "  O,  my  lost  one,  for  absence  aton- 
ing, 

You  have  suffered  like  me,  you  have  bled  without 
moaning ! 

"  Oh,   tarry  a  day,   ere  forever  we  part ; 
For  the  bliss  of  your  coming  brings  death  to  my 
heart !  " 

Then  it  seemed  that  the  cot  and  the  mountains 

sank  do'^Ti, 
And  the  stai-s  thronging  round,  hid  the  lights  of  the 

town; 

But  her  fears  were  assuaged  on  the  breast  of  her 

choice, 
"And  the  comfort,  unspeakable,  borne  on  His  voice : 

"  Oh,  soul-seeking  love  !  to  requite  for  thy  loss. 
In  the  sight  of  my  mother,  I  wedded  the  cross, 

And  espoused  in  my  pain,  wdth  my  arms  opened 

wide ; 
The  old  and  neglected,  by  men  cast  aside !  " 


IWBMON'S   OLD    WIFE  205 

John  Perkins,  Apostle,  as  seldom  of  late. 
Came  up  to  old  Betsy's  and  opened  the  gate. 

He  stole  through  the  orchard,  passed  softly  the 

door. 
And  set  his  great  basket  of  gifts  on  the  floor ; 

There  lay  on  the  cot,  with  her  face  to  the  South, 
The  wife  of   his   youth  with  a  smile  round   her 
mouth ; 

The  smile  that  she  wore  in  her  freshness  of  charms. 
When  he  woke  in  the  morn  and  she  slept  in  his 
arms; 

Like  the  light  on  Twin  Peaks,  when  the  day  lin- 
gers low. 
It  lay  'neath  her  white  hair  sand  tinted  their  snow : 

Recognition  of  love  everlasting  it  spake, 
When  father  and  mother  and  husband  forsake. 

"  Oh,  Gentiles  !  "  cried  Perkins,  and  knelt  by  place, 
"Can  your  wives  die  like  ours  with  a  smile  on 
their  face  ? 

"  O  women  !  who  yield  up  all  heaven  for  a  kiss  ! 
Ye  pity  our  old  wives,  who  slumber  like  this !  " 

Salt  Lake,  1871. 


206  POEMS 

HARPER'S   FERRY   SUNSET 

Rosy  glow  the  rugged  heights 

Half  way  up  the  mountain  hole, 
As  sunset  o'er  the  funnel,  lights 

With  wine,  the  grand  communion  bowl ; 
'Twixt  farther  peaks  Potomac's  sheet 

In  pale  wide  bays  extends  its  floss, 
These  and  the  sky  seem  hands  and  feet 

"When  stretched  the  Saviour  on  the  cross ; 
Rock  bars,  the  scars  of  civil  wars. 

Like  music  scales  on  rift  and  ridge, 
Sing  of  the  Sunday  when  the  cars 

Stopped,  like  an  organ,  on  the  bridge : 
His  gallows'  beams  o'ertop  the  town. 

The  mountains,  only,  hanged  John  Brown. 

Name  so  lowly,  sponsored  never, 

Parent  of  his  mighty  thought. 
Rhapsody  was  his  endeavor, 

Like  Prometheus  he  fought. 
Nothing  since  has  here  abided 

But  the^spell  of  Nature's  spasm, 
He  the  scenery  divided 

And  his  spectre  fills  the  chasm. 
Armorers  and  all  their  din, 

Feudal  times,  he  gathered  in  ; 
Him  suspended,  when  he  went. 

He  suspended  government ! 
As  a  whirlpool  leaves  a  tragic 

Rift  aghast  where  it  sucked  down, 
In  the  camera  of  magic 

Swims  thy  maelstrom  face,  old  Brown ! 


HEB  FIBST   GLASSES  207 

HER  FIRST   GLASSES 

"  I  CANNOT  see,"  my  lady  writes  ; 
"  Get  glasses  for  my  blinded  sights  !  " 
The  plaintive  cry  brings  tears  to  me 
That  those  bright  orbs  no  longer  see. 

A  centurj^'s  third  has  o'er  us  past, 
Since  childliood's  eyes  to  eyes  we  cast,  — 
Her  eyes  so  black,  my  eyes  so  grey,  — 
They  looked  the  love  we  dared  not  say. 

Those  glorious  eyes  beamed  in  my  soul 
And  warmed  my  blood  beyond  control, 
O'er  lands,  o'er  seas,  they  softly  shone, 
I  fled,  I  plead,  —  they  were  my  own. 

And  all  our  children  bore  her  eyes ; 
Some  look  down  on  me  from  the  skies ; 
Some  watch  me  in  this  human  wild. 
And  some  in  children  of  our  child. 

Those  radiant  lenses,  fading  some, 
Tell  years  autumnal  almost  come, 
I  feel  remorse  to  hear  her  plea : 
"  Give  me  my  eyes  to  look  on  Thee  !  " 

The  faithful  service  rises  up, 
It  fills  my  eyes,  it  fills  my  cup, 
It  puts  my  small  complaints  to  rest ; 
I  only  feel  I  have  been  blest : 

One  gentle  being  lived  for  me. 
Looked  on  me  long  as  she  could  see, 
And  will  look  on  me  from  the  skies. 
With  love  eternal  in  her  eyes. 


208  POEMS 


BESSIE 


Bless  her  heart !     I  see  her  shake 
All  the  lawn  weeds  from  her  rake, 
In  her  home  she  seems  to  take 
Such  a  comfort,  such  a  care, 
As  if  these  old  mountain  fields 
Were  her  precious  annual  yields, 
And  her  back  theii*  warrior  shields, 
Like  the  children  she  did  bear. 

Now  the  peach  tree  boughs  she  strips. 
Now  her  flower  borders  clips  : 
These  are  the  same  earnest  lips. 
Thirty  years  and  three  agone, 
That  to  me  in  beauty  came, 
Fearing  not  my  fiery  flame. 
Sinking  in  my  name  her  name  — 
That  dear  lady  on  the  lawn. 

Dihgence  was  all  her  art, 
Open  as  the  day  her  heart, 
Nothing  subtle,  double,  smart  — 
Now  I  know  it,  now  I  weep ; 
For  her  hair  is  growing  grey. 
And  I  feel  some  lonely  day, 
None  will  rake  the  spring-time  hay, 
Where  she  lowly  lies  asleep. 

But  no  rust  is  in  her  hair, 
In  her  hands  or  anywhere  ; 
Like  some  gold-piece  lost  by  wear, 
She  has  wasted  grain  by  grain. 


MAEY  WASHINGTON  209 

After  her  will  live  her  fruit, 
May  they  get  her  tireless  foot ! 
There  can  be  no  dust  nor  soot 
In  the  orbit  of  that  brain. 


MARY  WASHINGTON 

READ    AT    HER    MONUMENT'S    DEDICATION,    FREDERICKS- 
BURG, VA.,  MAY  10,  1894 

The  Rappahannock  ran  in  the  reign  of  good  Queen 
Anne, 
All  townless  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 
Old  Jamestown  was  forlorn  and  King  Williams- 
burg scarce  born  — 
'Twas  the  year  of  Blenheim's  victory, 
Whose  trumpets  died  away  in  far  Virginia 

On  the  cabin  of  an  old  tobacco  farm, 
Where  a  planter's  little  wife  to  a  little  girl  gave 
life 
And  the  fire  in  the  chimney  made  it  warm. 

It  was  little  Mary  Ball,  and  she  had  no  fame  at  all, 

But  the  world  was  all  the  same  as  if  she  had ; 
For  she  had  the  right  to  breathe  and  to  tottle  and 
to  teethe. 
And  to  love  some  other  cunning  little  lad : 
Though  he  proved  a  widower,  it  was  all  the  same 
to  her. 
For  he  gave  her  many  a  daughter  and  a  son. 
And  the  family  was  large  and  the  oldest,  little 
George, 
Was  the  hope  of  little  Widow  Washington. 


210  POEMS 

That  name  resounded  not  in  the  time  we  have 
forgot, 
It  was  nothmg  more  than  Smith  or  Jones  or  Ball ; 
And   George's  big  half  brothers  had  the  call  on 
their  stepmother's 
Affection,  like  the  babes  of  her  own  stall ; 
They  paid  the  larger  taxes  and  the  Ayletts  and 
Fairfaxes 
Received  them  in  their  families  and  lands, 
While  the  widow  thought  upon  it,  as  she  rode  in 
her  sunbonnet. 
Midst  her  slaves  who  tilled  her  gulleys  and  her 
sands ; 

Till  they  sought  to  take  her  George  upon  the  royal 
barge. 
And  give  him  a  commission  and  a  crest, 
When  her  heart  cried  out  "  O,  no  !  something  says 
he  must  not  go ; 
My  first  born  is  a  father  to  the  rest." 
She  could  find  him  little  schooling,  but  he  did  not 
learn  much  fooling, 
And  he  dragged  the  mountains  o'er  with  chain 
and  rod. 
The  Blue  Ridge  was  his  cover  and  the  Indian  his 
lover 
And  his  Duty  was  his  Sovereign  and  God. 

Still  her  rival  in  his  heart  was  the  Military  art, 

And  the  epaulettes  she  dreaded  still  were  there. 
There  are  households  still  where  glory  is  a  broken- 
hearted story, 


MARY  WASHINGTON  211 

And  the  drum  is  a  mockery  and  snare. 
From   the    far-off    Barbadoes,    from   the    yell   of 
Frenchmen  foes, 
From  the  ghosts  of  Braddock's  unavailing  strife, 
She  beheld  her  boy  return  and  his  bridal  candles 
burn, 
And  a  widow  like  herself  become  his  wife. 

By  Potomac's  pleasant  tide  he  was  settled  with  his 
bride. 
Overseeing  horses,  hounds  and  cocks  and  wards, 
And  it  seemed  but  second  nature  to  go  to  the 
legislature 
And  play  his  hand  at  politics  and  cards  ; 
Three-score-and-ten   had   come    when  the    widow 
heard  the  drum : 
"  My  God ! "    she    cried,   "  what   demon   is    at 
large  ?  " 
'Tis  the  conflict  with  the  King,  'tis  two  worlds  a 
mustering. 
And  the  call  of  Duty  comes  to  mother's  George. 

"  O  war !     To  plague  me  so  !     Must  my  first  born 
ever  go  ?  " 
The  answer  is  the  bugle  and  the  gun. 
The  town  fills  up  again  with  the  horse  of  Mercer's 
men. 
And  the  name  they  call  aloud  is  "  Washington." 
In  the  long,  distracting  years  none  may  count  the 
widow's  tears ; 
She  is  banished  o'er  the  mountains  from  her  farm ; 
She  is  old  and  lives  with  strangers,  while  ride  wide 
the  King's  red  rangers. 


212  POEMS 

And  the  only  word  is  "  Arm !  "  and  "  Arm !  " 
and  "  Arm  !  " 

"Come   home    and   see   your   son,  the    immortal 
Washington  ! 
He  has  beat  the  King  and  mighty  Cornwallis  !  " 
They  crowd  her  little  door  and  she  sees  her  boy 
once  more, 
But  there  is  no  glory  in  him  like  his  kiss. 
The  Marquises  and  Dukes,  in  their  orders  and 
perukes. 
The  Aids-de-camp,'  the  Generals  and  all. 
Stand  by  to  see  and  listen  how  her  aged  eyes  will 
glisten 
To  hear  from  him  the  tale  of  Yorktown's  fall. 

Upon  that  her  lips  are  dumb  to  the  trumpet  and 
the  drum ; 
All  their  pageantry  is  vanity  and  stuff. 
So  he  leans  upon  her  breast  she  cares  nothing  for 
the  rest  — 
It  is  he  and  that  is  victory  enough ! 
In  the  Hfe  that  mothers  give  is  their  thirst  that 
man  shall  live 
And  the  species  never  lose  the  legacy, 
To  love  again  on  earth  and  repeat  the  wondrous 
birth  — 
That  is  gloiy  —  that  is  immortality. 

Unto  Fredericksburg  at  last,  when  her  four-score 
years  are  past. 
Now  gray  himself,  he  rides  all  night  to  say : 


WAE  GOBBESPONDENTS'  MEMOBIAL   213 

"Madame — mother — ere  I  went,  to  become  the 
President, 
I  have  come  to  kiss  you  till  another  day." 
"  No,  George  ;  the  sight  of  thee,  which  I  can  hardly 
see. 
Is  all,  for  all  —  good-by !  I  can  be  brave. 
Fulfill  your  great  career  as  I  have  fulfilled  my 
sphere ! 
My  station  can  be  nothing  but  the  grave." 

The  mother's  love  sank  down,  and  its  sunset  on 
his  crown 
Shone  like  the  dying  beams  of  perfect  day. 
He  has  none  like  her  to  mix  in .  the  draught  of 
politics 
The  balm  that  softens  injury  away. 
But  he  was  his  mother's  son  till  his  weary  race 
was  done ; 
Her  gravity,  her  peace,  her  golden  mean. 
Shed  on  the  State  the  good  of  her  sterling  woman- 
hood, 
And  like  her  own  was  George's  closing  scene. 


WAR  CORRESPONDENTS'   MEMORIAL 

(-AT  GAPLAND,  MD.,  1896) 

Arch  aerial,  view  ethereal. 

Sky  and  stars  and  moonlit  cloud. 

Harvest  fields  of  golden  cereal, 

Rainbow  on  the  mountains  bowed  ; 

Mountain  ridges  stepped  like  bridges, 


214  POEMS 

O'er  the  rich  campagna  vale ; 
Stonn  which  marches  with  lightning  torches 

Firing  volleys  of  bullet  hail ; 
Windstorm  boreal,  rainstorm  oriel, 

Snow  pictorial  on  knob  and  town  — 
All  are  revealed  through  our  Memorial, 

Grim  as  a  cyclop  staring  down. 

Born  so  rigid,  stony  and  frigid. 

Moor  and  Roman  it  must  be. 
Long  erected,  a  gate  dissected 

From  some  castle's  feudality ; 
Or  set  in  the  passes,  where  saying  masses, 

Pilgrims,  crusaders,  kneeling  them, 
Gazed  and  trembled,  with  undissembled 

Joy,  in  the  sight  of  Jerusalem. 
Vale  of  Catoctin,  like  jewels  locked  in 

An  azure  casket,  flash  thy  lights  ! 
Like  the  Escorial,  our  Memorial 

Guards  them  all  from  the  mountain  heights. 

Yawning  fortalice,  tliine  the  portal  is 

Freedom  opened  with  her  pen. 
When  the  valley  so  musically 

Pealed  with  bugles  of  armed  men ; 
Walls  of  mountain  burst  with  a  fountain, 

Smitten  from  rock  by  our  Moses, 
Frowning  height  arched  with  the  light, 

Bloomed  the  Bastile  into  roses. 
Prison  and  light,  ruin  and  right, 

Show  in  the  gap,  grhn  and  lean ; 
Homely,  manorial,  our  Memorial 

Witnesses  what  it  has  seen. 


ff 


■*,^f\--~'\^J 


WaK    COUUESl-OXDEXTS'   MiCMOKIAL  AUCH,  FUOM   THE    EAST 


NEWS  AND  LOVE  215 

Windows  stand  triple,  each  of  them  typal, 

Each  an  evangel's  page  white  ; 
One  is  Depiction,  one  is  Description, 

One  is  Photography's  hght. 
These  in  acclivity,  arch  on  activity, 

Horse-shod  the  Centaur  uprears  ; 
Unicorn-towered,  forest  embowered, 

Sun  dial,  sentry  of  years ; 
Letters  amidst  the  arms,  history  o'er  the  farms, 

Socketing  moon  and  the  stars, 
High  and  pictorial,  our  Memorial 

Tells  of  the  tellers  of  wars ! 


NEWS   AND   LOVE 

1862. 

The  fight  just  done,  I  snatched  my  notes, 
While  Jack,  my  gelding,  ate  his  oats. 
And  ran  my  chance  without  a  guard. 
And  for  Pamunkey  I  rode  hard ; 
What  made  me  want  to  leave  the  camps, 

And  beat  the  mail  with  what  I  penned? 
It  was  not  glory  and  not  "  stamps  "  ; 

It  was  my  girl  at  the  other  end. 

I  wound  the  oaks  and  pines  among 
And  felt  so  buoyant  and  so  young. 
You  would  not  think  I  had  a  list 
Of  dead  and  wounded  in  my  fist ; 
What  said  those  sweet  birds  in  the  brush  ? 
Why  made  that  squirrel  seem  my  friend  ? 


216  POEMS 

What  made  my  nag  so  gaily  push  ? 
It  was  my  girl  at  the  other  end. 

Last  night  our  flanks  the  rebels  turned  ; 
I  see  the  sutlers'  wagons  burned, 
The  sunken  sloops  at  Putneys  see  — 
It  was  Jeb.  Stuart's  cavalry ! 
What  makes  me  out  alone  so  far  ? 

(I  may  to  Libby  prison  wend !) 
You  bet  your  life  it  is  not  war  ! 

It  is  my  girl  at  the  other  end. 

And  now  I  reach  the  morning  boat, 
The  large  lump  passes  from  my  throat, 
The  crooked  river  glides  so  flat, 
While  I  am  writing  on  my  hat ; 
And  when  I  sign  my  name  below 

I  hope  to  kiss  it  one  will  tend  ? 
Is  it  the  Public  ?     Buncombe !     No  ; 

It  is  that  girl  at  the  other  end. 

I  change  my  boat ;  I  vault  ashore 

The  second  morn  at  Baltimore, 

And  make  such  steps,  'twould  shame  a  stork. 

To  catch  the  first  train  for  New  York ; 

Why  do  I  toil  and  amplify. 

And  style  and  matter  so  much  mend  ? 
'Tis  for  the  pride  in  her  black  eye  — 

The  one  dear  girl  at  the  other  end ! 

The  "  0£Qce  "  makes  for  me  a  stir, 
Up  to  the  managing  editor ; 
They  say  it  was  a  real  "  beat," 


SNOWFALL  AT  NIGHT  21T 

And  I  must  rest  and  clothe  and  eat ; 
Though  grateful  all  these  praises  be, 

Why  do  I  want  one  gentle  friend 
To  put  the  crown  of  love  on  me  ?  — 

That  one  dear  girl,  at  the  other  end  ! 


SNOWFALL   AT   NIGHT 

GAPLAXD  OR  CRAMrTOX'S  GAP 

The  fire  of  forest  wood 

My  mountain  woodlands  grew, 
Warms  my  thin  winter's  blood 

And  boils  the  tempting  brew. 
I  hear  the  farmer's  sleisrh 

Come  to  ray  hermit's  den ; 
The  sleighbell's  roundelay 

Makes  my  heart  young  again. 

They  let  the  snowdrift  in, 

iNIy  study's  light  streams  out  ; 
Spirits  in  raiment  thin 

Are  whiskering  about ; 
The  old  wives'  cheeks  are  roses, 

The  young  wife's  eyes  are  spells. 
The  farmer's  heart  jocose  is 

And  every  voice  has  bells. 

Like  Santa  Claus'  party 

They  muffle  up  and  go, 
Their  bells,  their  good  night  hearty 

Melt  in  the  falling  snow ; 


218  POEMS 

And  as  I  read  my  history 
Of  Northern  hosts  at  Rome, 

White  camps  in  silent  mystery, 
Are  pitched  around  my  home. 

At  morn  I  look  in  wonder : 

The  argent  valleys  shine 
'Twixt  mountains  drawn  asunder,  — 

Potosi's  sUver  mine. 
Blue  woods,  in  plumage  hoary, 

Descend  from  peaceful  skies, 
A  seraph  host  of  story 

Set  guard  on  Paradise. 

One  crow  like  Satan  croaking 

Flaps  o'er  the  saintly  plan, 
This  silver  shield  no  joking 

When  he  would  blacken  man ; 
The  rabbit's  feet  wide  springing, 

His  burrow  would  conceal. 
That  tell-tale  snowbirds,  singing, 

Unto  the  dogs  reveal. 

The  roofs  are  sheets  of  paper, 

My  doves  their  loving  crest ; 
With  lace  some  subtle  draper 

(And  bridal  wreaths)  has  dressed 
The  vines,  the  weeds,  the  sedges ; 

In  filigree  so  light. 
The  quail  his  covey  fledges. 

And  truly  calls  "  Bob  White." 


SNOWFALL  AT  NIGHT  219 

The  mountain  laurel's  stringers 

Are  chased  in  silver  net,  — 
The  peach  tree's  baby  fingers 

Wear  mits  of  fairy  fret, 
Like  woodmen's  blows  with  axes. 

The  starving  crows  at  morn, 
Caw  on  their  withheld  taxes. 

Due  from  the  farmer's  corn. 

Still  as  the  meteor  falling 

Across  the  disc  of  night. 
These  few  strong  sounds  are  calling 

Adown  earth's  urn  of  white  ; 
Like  marble  statuary 

The  noble  landscapes  stand 
In  one  grand  cemetery. 

Above  a  hero-land. 

Of  old  Antietam's  story, 

The  sculptor  of  the  snow 
Carves  out  the  allegory. 

Like  Michael  Angelo  : 
These  peaks  of  alabaster 

Entomb  the  scene  of  peace. 
Where  Pollux  fought  with  Castor, 

And  Freedom  came  to  Greece. 


220  FOEMS 


DELAWARE   POEMS 


GEORGETOWN 

DELAWARE 

Between  the  Indian  River,  that  of  the  ocean  tastes, 

And  springs  that  seek  the  Nanticoke  tlirough  sandy- 
forest  wastes, 

And  mill-ponds  that  in  mighty  swamps  the  buried 
timber  soak. 

And  deluge  all  the  cypress  lands  to  gain  the  Poco- 
moke, 

The  court-house  village  cleaves  a  space  and  little 
has  to  spare  — 

So  many  miles,  by  statute,  from  each  and  every- 
where. 

The  houses  are  of  shingle,  and  gardens  hem  them 
round. 

Lean  grow  the  elms  and  maples  about  the  court- 
house ground, 

And  in  the  public  corner,  like  some  old  town- 
pump's  ghost. 

The  chicken  thief  of  moonhght  observes  the  whip- 
ping-post, — 

He  who  has  clasped  it  fondly  knew  not,  I  fear  me, 
then, 

It  was  a  peaceful  heirloom  from  gracious  William 
Penn. 


GEOBGETOWN  221 

No  house  is  so  forsaken  the  chickens  are  not  there, 
Tax  dogs,  tax  hogs,  but  mulct  ye  not  the  hens  of 

Delaware ! 
They  won  the  mains  at  Valley  Forge,  and  should 

be  quartered  now 
Upon  the  ancient  arms  of  State  beside  the  brindled 

cow. 
Let   mountain   people   eagles    love    and  on  their 

standards  plant  'em. 
The  bird  of  Sussex  fights  or  fries  —  it  is  the  azure 

bantam. 

Around  the  stores  to  empty  carts  the  yokes  of  oxen 
stand, 

Or  drag  the  knees  and  keels  of  ships  from  saw- 
mills close  at  hand ; 

The  solemn  bank  is  locked  at  noon  to  let  the 
CrcESus  dine, 

And  grave  old  county  clerks  come  forth  to  tipple 
apple  wine. 

Not  unobserved  their  noses  bloom,  for  at  the  win- 
dow blinds. 

Old  ladies  sit  the  whole  day  long  of  criticising 
minds. 

With  sheriffs'  sales  and  country  studs  the  tavern 

walls  are  filled, 
And,  save    in   the  election   heats,  all   politics    is 

stilled ; 
Then  nature  to  disorder  runs,  society  to  fear, 
Lest  Jones  or  Smith  might  get  a  place  worth  ninety 

pounds  a  year. 


222  POEMS 

So  old  they  grow  by  quiet  lives,  the  graveyard  fills 

but  slow, 
And  only  age  and  infancy  upon  the  tombstones 

show. 

Old  lawyers  to  their  students  speak  when  evening 

comes  apace. 
Of  many  a  mighty  advocate  in  many  a  storied 

case  — 
How  Robert  Frame  took  but  a  dram  to  make  him- 

seK  austere, 
And  John  M.  Clayton  got  a  fee  would  keep  a  man 

a  year. 
The  church  bell  sounds  at  twilight,  and  shadows 

cross  the  square. 
Young  couples  full  of  wedlock  and  widows  full  of 

prayer. 

The  peach  trees  grapple  with  the  pines  and  drive 

the  forest  back, 
And  move  to  town  the  teams  of  fruit  o'er  many  a 

woodland  track; 
Far  cities  stretch  their  hands  to  take  the  crimson 

harvest  in, 
And  bribe  the  negro  to  release  his  haul  of  terrapin. 
The  perch  in  all  the  inlets  run,  the  crabs  unslip 

their  shells, 
And  deep  in  sweet  potato  vines  the  heifers  clink 

their  bells. 

Then,  when  the  fodder  of  the  corn  is  bundled  in 
the  stack, 


GEORGETOWN  223 

And  through  the  turning  autumn  leaves  the  mill- 
ponds  glisten  black, 

The  hunting  dogs  grow  restive  and  round  their 
masters  pant  — 

They  sniff  the  odor  of  the  quail,  the  flavor  of  the 
brant. 

And  bid  adieu  by  half  the  town,  some  one  old  lady 
starts 

By  railroad  to  the  city  to  see  the  styles  and  arts. 

Now,  chuckling  low  of  winter  nights  beside  his 
office  fire, 

The  old  Recorder  reads  the  wills  of  many  a  family 
sire, 

Who  made  his  mark  and  left  a  sow  to  several 
various  heirs, 

And  had  the  barrow  slaughtered  to  pay  for  funeral 
prayers. 

"Ho!  ho!"  he  quoth,  "how  some  proud  heads 
would  never  bow  to  me. 

If  ever  they  should  know  I  poked  about  their  fam- 
ily tree  !  " 

And  level  as  the  sandy  land  is  human  life  diffused ; 

To  preacher  turns  the  stricken  lad  a  maiden  has 
refused ; 

A  little  lawsuit  with  its  cares  the  rival  homesteads 
haunts, 

And  hastens  to  untimely  graves  the  aged  litigants ; 

So  are  the  years  repeated,  as  tell  an  ancient  few. 

Since  Lewes  lost  the  court-house,  soon  after  Ninety- 
Two. 


224  POEMS 

So  life  moves  on  from  year  to  year,  unstirred  by 

fears  or  schisms, 
And  old  men  read  their  Bibles  and  nurse  their 

rheumatisms  ; 
The  moss  grows  on  some  older  roof,  familiar  signs 

grow  dim. 
Or  from  a  venerable  tree  falls  some  decrepit  limb. 
So  still  it  is,  I  almost  hear  the  cry  I  raised,  that 

morn. 
When  here,  past  thirty  years  ago,  my  mother's  son 

was  born. 
1876. 


SWEDE   AND   INDIAN   CANTICO 

1638 

Little  Minqua  girl  on  the  Christine  kill ! 

Go  get  your  sisters  five 
And  stand  them  here  twixt  the  kill  and  the  hill, 

Till  the  boatswain  pipes  alive  ! 
Then,  whistle,  my  Jack !  and  fiddle,  Mynheer ! 

Till  the  Minqua  girl  so  neat. 
Can  not  stand  still  for  the  Uttle  brown  ear 
That  tells  such  tunes  to  her  feet ! 

Then  whistle,  my  Jack !  and  fiddle  Mynheer ! 

And  the  brandy  wine  kag  tip  more ! 
The  Minqua  maid  is  my  little  brown  dear,  — 
The  Swede  man's  happy  ashore ! 

The  Kalmar  Nyckel's  a  right  fine  ship. 

The  Vogel  Gripen's  fast. 
But  the  Minqua  girl  has  a  cherry  lip 


DOVER  225 

And  a  lean  like  tlie  vessel's  mast ; 
Then  whistle,  my  Jack !  and  fiddle,  Mynheer ! 

Till  the  Minqua  girl  so  young, 
Shall  feel  no  man  but  the  Swede  man  near, 
And  teach  him  the  Minqua  tongue  I 

Then  whistle,  my  Jack  I  and  fiddle,  MjTiheer ! 

And  the  brandywine  kag  tip  more  ! 
The  Mmqua  maid  is  my  little  fawn  deer,  — 
The  Swede  man's  happy  ashore  ! 

I  love  our  queen,  the  little  Christine, 

Nor  Stockholm's  lassies  slur. 
But  the  Minqua  girl  has  the  red  doe's  lean, 

And  the  sleek  of  the  beaver  fur  ; 
Then  whistle,  my  Jack  !  and  fiddle.  Mynheer ! 

Till  we  fire  the  Kalmar's  gun 
And  the  Minqua  girl  runs  away  with  fear 
In  the  woods  where  is  venison ! 

Then  whistle,  my  Jack  I  and  fiddle,  Mynheer ! 

And  the  brandywine  kag  tip  more  ! 
The  Minqua  maid  is  my  little  game  deer,  — 
The  Swede  man's  happy  ashore  I 


DOVER 

DELAWARE 

In  a  bracket  mortised. 
Like  a  bust  with  fractured  head 
Of  some  lady  dehcate. 
Stands  the  Delawarean  State. 


226  POEMS 

Counties,  three,  are  all  her  own, 
Rismg  like  a  triple  stone ; 
Down  her  profile  like  her  hair 
Showers  the  golden  Delaware. 

In  her  lids,  retiring  shy, 
BroAvn  Newcastle  is  her  eye ; 
In  the  ocean's  ewer  thrust 
Rosy  Lewes  tips  her  bust. 

In  her  throat's  slim  mterval 
Dover  is  her  capital, 
Like  a  modest  brooch  within 
Velvet  recess  of  her  chin. 

From  its  agate  to  the  bay 
Ribbons  a  soft  creek  away. 
Through  the  lotos  lily  ponds 
And  the  marshes'  diamonds. 

Humid  in  the  groves  it  stands, 
Like  some  town  in  Netherlands, 
Rising  steepled  o'er  the  fen,  — 
A  mirage  of  Hindlopen. 

As  within  the  locket's  lid 
Him,  the  lady  loved,  is  hid, 
Delaware,  her  face  demure, 
Shows  in  Dover's  miniature  : 

Edmond  Andi'os  wigged  so  grand, 
Francis  Lovelace  granting  land. 
Royal  York  and  William  Pemi 
And  the  Calvert  gentlemen. 


BOVEB  227 

While  the  Dutchman  trapped  for  furs, 
Here  were  glebe  and  worshippers 
Whilst  the  separate  State  began, 
In  the  fresh  years  of  Queen  Anne. 

And  the  sheriff  set  his  stocks 
In  St.  Jones's  splatterdocks ; 
When  its  rent  it  would  not  pay 
The  Assembly  drove  away. 

In  his  marshes  wrote  with  grace, 
By  his  cornered  fire-place, 
Dickinson,  with  eagle  wing, 
"  Farmer's  Letters  "  for  the  King. 

Here  the  bell,  like  falchion  keen. 
Rang  the  soldiers  to  the  green, 
Who,  erewhile,  to  court  had  come 
At  the  beating  of  the  drum. 

Like  a  trumpet  of  his  Lord's, 
Guarded  by  the  gentry's  swords. 
Preached  the  schoolhouse  steps  upon 
"  Tory  "  Freeborn  Garrettson. 

Barratt's  chapel  was  the  lists, 
Where  old  Wesley's  Methodists 
Bishops  did  themselves  create , 
In  a  new  Episcopate. 

Whatcoat's  grave  is  in  the  town. 
Bassett,  convert  of  renown, 
(Landed  statesman  in  the  strife,) 
Bayard  gave  his  child  to  wife. 


228  POEMS 

Found  by  Presbyterian  kirks 
Are  the  heroes  and  their  works, 
With  the  Irish  and  the  Scot 
And  their  kindred  Huguenot. 

Every  nook  its  own  equips,  — 
Jones,  McDonough  fought  their  ships 
With  the  country-hearted  air 
Breathed  in  sylvan  Delaware. 

h\ke  the  gamecock  first  to  crow, 
While  imperial  states  were  slow, 
Delaware  her  blessing  sent 
To  a  Federal  government. 

Count  de  Segur  bringing  gold, 
Peeped  on  Dover's  sleep,  and  told ; 
Marshal  Grouchy,  gunning  thi-ough, 
Shot  more  than  at  Waterloo. 

Through  our  borders  making  tours, 
Here  came  Du  Pont  de  Nemours, 
With  his  sons  Lavoisier  taught 
To  make  powder  full  of  thought. 

Straight  as  it  were  almost  new. 
The  cool  house  of  Quaker  Chew 
Echoes  more  than  war's  renown 
Round  his  hall  at  Germantown ; 

Not  his  daughters,  royal  fine. 
Not  his  old  Madeira  wine. 
But  all  filial  war's  surcease  : 
Clayton's,  Bulwer's  solemn  peace. 


DOVEB  229 

Clayton  to  young  Fisher  there 
Told  the  lore  of  Delaware  ; 
Local-hearted  was  his  breast 
As  the  fishhawk  to  its  nest. 

Bayards  four,  to  Senates  sent, 
From  the  rented  State  house  went. 
Cross  the  square,  unspeaking,  three 
Rival  brothers  Saulsbury ! 

Who  shall  know  a  maerazine 
Crept  to  print  on  Dover  green? 
Or  that  Smithers,  lawyer  prim. 
Here  composed  in  Latin  hymn  ? 

Or  that  jurist  Ridgelys  sank 
Sterling  talents  in  a  bank  ? 
And,  her  Blue  Hen's  chickens  canned, 
Dover  gave  the  world  her  brand. 

Surgery  its  native  realms 
Founded  under  Dover  elms 
And,  its  green  retreats  within. 
Letters  gave  to  medicine.^ 

Delaware's  tranquil  increase 
Comes  from  times  of  Prince  Maurice, 
Fragment  of  their  souls'  concern  — 
Grotius  and  Oxenstiern. 

Down  her  creek  ports  from  the  ways 
Glide  her  sloops,  where  cattle  graze, 

1  Doctors  James  Sykes  and  Edward  Miller,  1799. 


230  POEMS 

Ever  fattening,  never  gone, 

On  Van  Rembrandt's  river  lawn. 

Jurisprudence  of  its  courts 
Dignified  by  its  reports  ; 
By  its  Senators  sustained 
The  equality  it  gained. 

Not  the  fractious  rights  of  States 
Riots  in  her  water  gates ; 
Kirtled  in  her  slender  zone, 
Daughter  of  our  Union. 

Ancient  blendings  in  her  type 
Give  her  beauty  rare  and  ripe, 
All  of  Europe's  races  born 
In  the  orient  of  her  morn. 

Wanton  cities  spoil  her  not ; 
Like  her  peach  and  apricot. 
She,  within  her  little  tree. 
Has  the  orchard's  luxury. 


LAND   OF   NO   ACCOUNT 

A  TOAST  to  them  the  sage  contemn, 

As  only  fit  for  pelf : 
Here's  to  the  State  of  people  great 

That  never  knew  itself ! 
We  never  knew  our  statesmen  true, 

Our  quorums  and  our  twelves, 
Our  senators  and  congressmen  — 

They  never  knew  themselves. 


LAND   OF  NO  ACCOUNT  231 

The  traveled  prig  whose  soul  was  big  — 

That  patronizing  elf  — 
The  college  sprig,  saw  through  his  wig 

The  State  knew  not  itself. 
We  humble  fools,  a  million  schools 

Made  of  us  reading  elves  ; 
We  sat  on  stools,  we  plied  our  tools, 

We  never  knew  ourselves. 

We  had  no  lords,  we  wore  no  swords, 

Not  Ghiblin  nor  yet  Guelf, 
Our  parent  fount  of  no  account 

We  never  knew  ourself ; 
More  wooden  we  in  company 

Than  our  good  axes'  helves, 
We  read  our  fate  not  to  be  great 

And  never  knew  ourselves. 

Yet  still  we  grew,  as  simples  do, 

And  wealth  was  on  our  shelf ; 
From  sea  to  sea  all  folks  were  free,  — 

Our  neighbor  was  ourself. 
"  See  yonder  lout !  '  He  comes  not  out. 

He  dickers  and  he  delves ; 
Let's  smite  his  hip,  blow  up  his  ship ! "  — 

They  never  knew  ourselves. 

To  farthest  world  our  shots  are  hurled  — 

Old  Spain  has  dug  her  delf  — 
Hapsburgers  great!  Beware  the  state 

That  never  knew  itself  ! 
Lest  if  we  quit  our  humble  wit  — 


232  POEMS 

The  dry  goods  on  our  shelves  — 
All  hell  may  feel  our  home-made  steel 
And  we  may  know  ourselves ! 


THE   OREGON 

I  AM  coming,  Uncle  Sam ! 
And  a  little  sore  I  am ; 
Twelve  thousand  miles  of  palm, 
Through  tropics  twain,  I  trode, 
From  my  own  golden  gate 
Down  past  Magellan's  Strait, 
And  round  the  Horn  Avith  freight, 
Precious  load. 

Four  hundred  sons  of  mine 
From  the  groves  of  giant  pine, 
The  vineyards  of  the  vine, 
The  mountain  and  the  dall. 
They  come  along  with  me 
Their  Uncle  Sam  to  see  ; 
Oh,  next  time,  let  it  be 
By  canal ! 

We  outsailed  Captain  Cook 
And  Sinbad  in  the  book; 
Our  steel  frames  never  shook, 
For  our  smiths  we  swore  upon  ; 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  they  blew 
Past  the  Incas  of  Peru, 
And  the  Patagonian  knew 
Oregon. 


THE   OBEGON  233 

No  cable  of  our  own 
Spoke  in  our  uncle's  tone  ; 
All  voiceless  and  alone, 
Deep  laden  with  our  guns, 
We  slipped  the  Spaniard's  snares 
In  the  Bay  of  Buenos  Ayres 
By  the  good  saint  in  our  prayers  — 
Washington. 

They  gave  us  right  good  will, 
The  Repubhc  of  Brazil ; 
Of  fuel  we  took  fill, 
And  out  again  we  wheeled ; 
The  Equator  it  was  hot, 
But  we  never  slacked  our  trot. 
To  reach  that  hotter  spot  — 
Battlefield. 

The  Amazon's  wide  mouth, 
We  crossed  its  burning  drouth, 
Left  Orinoco  south 
And  all  the  brood  of  Spain's ; 
Till  the  air  it  seemed  our  own, 
And  the  stars  were  purer  sown, 
And  we  felt  our  native  zone 
In  our  veins. 

They  may  waylay  us  yet, 
But  the  world  will  not  forget 
What  workmanship  we  set, 
That  could  stand  this  mighty  trip ; 
It  will  fear  our  Arts  afar 


234  POEMS 

More  than  our  guns  of  war, 
And  the  ship  shall  be  our  star : 
Workmanship. 
1898. 


THE   CIRCUIT   PREACHER 

His  thin  wife's  cheek  grows  pinched  and  pale  with 
anxiousness  intense ; 

He  sees  the  brethren's  prayerful  eyes  o'er  all  the 
conference  ; 

He  hears  the  Bishop  slowly  call  the  long  "Ap- 
pointment" rolls, 

Where  in  his  vineyard  God  would  place  these 
gatherers  of  souls. 

Apart,  austere,  the  knot  of  grim  Presiding  Elders 

sit; 
He  wonders  if  some  city  "  Charge  "  may  not  for 

him  have  writ  ? 
Certes !  could  they  his  sermon  hear  on  Paul  and 

Luke  awreck, 
Then  had  his  talent  ne'er  been  hid  on  Annomessix 

Neck! 

Poor  rugged  heart !  be  still  a  pause,  and  you,  worn 
wife  be  meek  ! 

Two  years  of  banishment  they  read  far  down  the 
Chesapeake  ! 

Though  Brother  Bates,  less  eloquent,  by  Wilming- 
ton is  wooed, 

The  Lord  that  counts  the  sparrows  fall  shall  feed 
liis  little  brood. 


ClKCXIT  PKEACllEK  AM>   W  IFE :    THE  AlTHOK's   PAKENTS 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


THE   CIECUIT  PEEACHEE  235 

"  Cheer  up,  my  girl  I  Here  Brother  Riggs  our  cir- 
cuit knows  'twill  please. 

He  raised  thi-ee  hundred  dollars  there,  besides  the 
marriage  fees. 

What !  tears  from  us  who  preached  the  word  these 
thirty  years  or  so  ? 

Two  years  on  barren  Chincoteague,  and  two  in 
Tuckahoe  ? 

"  The  schools  are  good,  the  brethren  say,  and  our 

Church  holds  the  wheel ; 
The  Presbyterians  lost  their  house ;  the  Baptists 

lost  their  zeal. 
The  parsonage   is  clean  and  dry ;    the  town  has 

friendly  folk,  — 
Not  as  Rehoboth  half  so  dull,  nor  proud  like  Poco- 

moke. 

"  Oh !  thy  just  will,   our  Lord !  be  done,  though 

these  eight  seasons  more, 
We  see  our  ague-crippled  boys  pine  on  the  Eastern 

Shore, 
Wliile  we,  thy  steward,  journey  out  our  dedicated 

years 
Midst  foresters  of  Nanticoke,  or  heathen  of  Tan- 

giers ! 

"  Yea !  some  must  serve  on  God's  frontiers,  and  I 

shall  fail,  perforce. 
To  sow  upon  some  better  ground  my  most  select 

discourse ; 
At  Sassafras,  or  Smyrna,  preach  my  argument  on 

'  Drink,' 
My  series  on  the  Pentateuch,  at  Appoquinimink. 


236  POEMS 

"  Gray  am  I,  brethren,  in  the  work,  though  tough 

to  bear  my  part ; 
It  is  these  drooping  little  ones  that  sometimes  wring 

my  heart, 
And  cheat  me  with  the  vain  conceit  the  cleverness 

is  mine 
To  fill  the  churches  of   the  Elk,   and  pass  the 

Brandywine. 

"  These  hairs  were  brown,  when,   full   of   hope, 

ent'ring  these  holy  lists. 
Proud  of  my  Order  as  a  knight,  —  the  shouting 

Methodists,  — 
I  made   the  pine  woods   ring  with   hymns,  with 

prayer  the  night-winds  shook. 
And  preached  from  Assawaman  Light  far  North  as 

Bombay  Hook. 

"  My  nag  was  gray,  my  gig  was  new ;  fast  went 
the  sandy  mUes ; 

The  eldest  Trustees  gave  me  praise,  the  fairest  sis- 
ters smiles ; 

Still  I  recall  how  Elder  Smith  of  Worten  Heights 
averred 

My  Apostolic  Parallels  the  best  he  ever  heard. 

"  All  winter  long  I  rode  the  snows,  rejoicing  on  my 
way; 

At  midnight  our  Revival  hymns  rolled  o'er  the  sob- 
bing bay ; 

Three  Sabbath  sermons,  every  week,  should  tire  a 
man  of  brass,  — 

And  stiU  our  fervent  membership  must  have  their 
extra  Class ! 


THE   CIECUIT  PREACHER  237 

"Aggressive  with  the  zeal  of  youth,  in  many  a 

warm  requite 
I  terrified  Immersionists,  and  scourged  the  Mil- 

lerite ; 
But  larger,  tenderer  charities  such  vain  debates 

supplant. 
When  the  dear  wife,  saved  by  my  zeal,  loved  the 

Itinerant. 

"  No  cooing  dove  of  storms  afeared,  she  shared  my 
life's  distress, 

A  singing  Miriam,  alway,  in  God's  poor  wilderness  ; 

The  wretched  at  her  footstep  smiled,  the  frivolous 
were  still ; 

A  bright  path  marked  her  pilgrimage,  from  Black- 
bird to  Snowhill. 

"  A  new  face  in  the  parsonage,  at  church  a  double 

pride !  — 
Like  Joseph's  Mary  and  her  babe  they  filled  the 

'  Am  en-side '  — 
Crouched  at  my  feet  in  the  old  gig,  my  boy,  so  fair 

and  frank, 
Naswongo's  darkest  marshes  cheered,  or  sluices  of 

Choptank. 

"  My  cloth  drew  close  ;  too  fruitful  love  my  fruit- 
less life  outran  ; 

The  townfolk  marvelled,  when  we  moved,  at  such 
a  caravan ! 

I  wonder  not  my  lads  grew  wild,  when,  bright 
without  the  door 

Spread  the  ripe,  luring,  wanton  world,  —  and  we, 
within,  so  poor ! 


238  POEMS 

"■  For,  down  the  silent  cypress  aisles  came  shapes 

even  me  to  scout, 
Mocking  tlie  lean  flanks  of  my  mare,  my  boy's 

patched  roundabout, 
And  saying :  '  Have   these  starveling  stocks,  thy 

congregation,  souls. 
That  on  their  dull  heads  Heaven  and  thou  pour 

forth  such  living  coals  ?  ' 

"  Then  prayer  brought  hopes,  half  secular,  like 

seers  by  Endor's  witch : 
Beyond  our  barren  Maiyland  God's  folks  were  wise 

and  rich  ; 
Where  climbing  spires  and  easy  pews  showed  how 

the  preacher  thrived, 
And  all  old  brethren  paid  their  rents,  and  many 

young  ones  wived ! 

"  I  saw  the  ships  Henlopen  pass  with  chaplains  fat 
and  sleek ; 

From  Bishopshead  with  fancy's  sails  I  crossed  the 
Chesapeake ; 

In  velvet  pulpits  of  the  North  said  my  best  ser- 
mons o'er,  — 

And  that  on  Paul  to  Patmos  driven,  drew  tears  in 
Baltimore. 

•'  Well !  well  I  my  brethren,  it  is  true  we  should 

not  preach  for  pelf,  — 
(I  would  my  sermon  on  Saint  Paul  the  Bishop 

heard  himself !} 


LITTLE    GBISETTE  239 

But  this  crushed  wife, — these  boys, —  these  hairs ! 

they  cut  me  to  the  core ; 
Is  it  not  hard,  year  after  year,  to  ride  the  Eastern 

Shore? 

"  Next  year  ?  Yes  I  yes  I  I  thank  you  much !  Then, 

my  reward  may  fall. 
(That  is  a  downright  fine  discourse  on  Patmos  and 

St.  Paul !) 
So,  Brother  Riggs,  once  more  my  voice  shall  ring 

in  the  old  lists. 
Cheer  up,  sick  heart  I   who  would  not  die  among 

these  Methodists  ?  " 
1866. 


LITTLE   GRISETTE 

Little  Grisette,  you  haunt  me  yet; 

My  passion  for  you  was  long  ago, 

Before  my  head  was  heavy  with  snow, 
Or  mine  eye  had  lost  its  lustre  of  jet. 
In  the  dim  old  Quartier  Latin  we  met ; 

We  plighted  faith  one  night  in  June, 

And  all  our  life  was  honeymoon ; 
We  did  not  ask  if  it  were  sin, 

We  did  not  go  to  kirk  to  know, 
We  only  loved  and  let  the  world 

Hum  on  its  pelfish  way  below : 
Marked  from  our  castle  in  the  air, 

How  pigmy  its  triumphal  cars  — 
Eight  stages  from  the  entrj^  stair. 

But  near  the  stars  ! 


240  POEMS 

Little  Grisette,  rich  or  in  debt, 

We  were  too  fond  to  chide  or  sigh,  — 
Never  so  poor  that  I  could  not  buy 

A  sweet,  sweet  kiss,  from  my  little  Grisette. 

If  I  could  nothing  gain  or  get. 

By  hook,  or  crook,  or  song,  or  story, 
Along  the  starving  road  to  glory, 

I  marvelled  how  your  nimble  thimble. 
As  to  a  tune,  danced  fast  and  fleeting, 

And  stopped  my  pen  to  catch  the  music, 
But  only  heard  my  heart  a-beating ; 

The  quaint  old  roofs  and  gables  airy 

Flung  down  the  light,  for  you  to  wear  it, 

And  made  my  love  a  queen  in  faery. 
To  haunt  my  garret. 


Little  Grisette,  the  meals  you  set 

Were  sweeter  to  me  than  banquet  feast ; 

Your  face  was  a  blessing  fit  for  a  priest ; 
At  your  smile  the  candle  went  out  in  a  pet. 
The  wonderful  chops,  I  shall  never  forget ! 

If  the  wine  was  a  trifle  too  sharp  or  rank, 

We  kissed  each  time  before  we  drank. 
The  old  gilt  clock,  e'er  wrong,  was  swinging ; 

The  waxed  floor  your  feet  reflected ; 
And  dear  B^ranger's  chansons  singing, 

You  tricked  at  picquet  till  detected. 
You  fill  my  pipe  ;  —  is  it  your  eyes 

Whereat  I  light  your  cigarette  ?  — 
On  all  but  me  the  darkness  lies, 

And  my  Grisette ! 


LITTLE   GBISETTE  241 

Little  Grisette,  the  soft  sunset 

Lingered  a  long  while,  that  we  might  stay, 

To  mark  the  Seine  from  the  breezy  quay 
Around  the  bridges  foam  and  fret ; 
How  came  it  that  your  eyes  were  wet, 

When  I  ambitiously  would  be, 

A  man  renowned  across  the  sea? 
I  told  you  I  should  come  again,  — 

It  was  but  half  way  round  the  globe,  — 
To  bring  3-ou  diamonds  for  your  faith, 

And  for  your  gray  a  silken  robe : 
You  were  more  wise  than  lovers  are ; 

I  meant,  Sweetheart,  to  tell  you  true, 
I  said  a  tearful  "J.w  revoir  ;  " 

You  said :  '•^ Adieu  !  " 

Little  Grisette,  we  both  regret ; 

For  I  am  wedded  more  than  wived ; 

Those  careless  days,  in  thought  revived. 
But  teach  me  I  cannot  forget. 
Perhaps  old  age  must  pay  the  debt 

Folly  contracted  long  ago,  — 

I  only  know,  I  only  know. 
That  phantoms  haunt  me  everywhere 

By  busy  day,  in  peopled  gloam,  — 
They  rise  between  me  and  my  prayer. 

They  chafe  the  holiness  of  home  ! 
My  wife  is  proud,  my  bo}'-  is  cold, 

I  dare  not  speak  of  what  I  fret : 
'Tis  my  heart's  rest  with  thee,  I  fold. 

Little  Grisette ! 

Flobence,  1863. 


242  POEMS 


THE   PIGEON   GIRL 

On  the  sloping  market-place, 

In  the  city  of  Compi^gne, 
Every  Saturday  her  face, 

Like  a  Sunday,  comes  again ; 
Daylight  finds  her  in  her  seat. 
With  her  panier  at  her  feet. 

Where  her  pigeons  lie  in  pairs ; 
Like  their  plumage  gray  her  gown, 
To  her  sabots  drooping  down ; 
And  a  kerchief,  brightly  brown. 

Binds  her  smooth,  dark  hairs. 

All  the  buyers  knew  her  well, 

And,  perforce,  her  face  must  see, 
As  a  holy  Raphael 

Lures  us  in  a  gallery ; 
Round  about  the  rustics  gape. 
Drinking  in  her  comely  shape, 

And  the  housewives  gently  speak, 
When  into  her  eyes  they  look. 
As  within  some  holy  book. 
And  the  gables  high  and  crook. 

Fling  their  sunshine  on  her  cheek. 

In  her  hands  two  milk-white  doves, 

Happ}'-  in  her  lap  to  lie. 
Softly  murmur  of  their  loves. 

Envied  by  the  passers-by ; 
One  by  one  their  flight  they  take. 
Bought  and  cherished  for  her  sake. 


THE  PIGEON   GIBL  243 

Leaving  so  reluctantly ; 
Till  the  shadows  close  approach, 
Fades  the  pageant,  foot  and  coach, 
And  the  giants  in  the  cloche 

Ring  the  noon  for  Picardie. 

Round  the  city  see  her  glide, 

With  a  slender  sunbeam's  pace  ! 
Mirrored  in  the  Oise's  tide, 

The  gold-fish  hover  on  her  face  ; 
All  the  soldiers  touch  their  caps  ; 
In  the  caf^s  quit  their  naps 

Gargon,  guest,  to  wish  her  back ; 
And  the  fat  old  beadles  smile 
As  she  kneels  along  the  aisle, 
Like  Pucelle  in  other  while, 

In  the  dim  church  of  Saint  Jacques. 

Now  she  climbs  her  dappled  ass,  — 

He  well-pleased  such  friend  to  know,  — 
And  right  merrily  they  pass 

The  armorial  chateau ; 
Down  the  long,  straight  paths  they  tread 
Till  the  forest,  overhead. 

Whispers  low  its  leafy  love  ; 
In  the  archway's  green  caress 
Rides  the  wondrous  dryadess  — 
Thrills  the  grass  beneath  her  press. 

And  the  blue-eyed  sl^y  above. 

I  have  met  her,  o'er  and  o'er, 

As  I  strolled  alone  apart, 
By  a  lonely  carrefour 


244  POEMS 

In  the  forest's  tangled  heart, 
Safe  as  any  stag  that  bore 
Imprint  of  the  Emperor ; 

In  the  copse  that  round  her  grew 
Tiptoe  the  straight  saphngs  stood, 
Peeped  the  wild  boar's  satyr  brood, 
Like  an  arrow  clove  the  wood 

The  glad  note  of  the  cuckoo. 

How  I  wished  myself  her  friend ! 

(So  she  wished  that  I  were  more) 
Jogging  toward  her  journey's  end 

At  Saint  Jean  au  Bois  before. 
Where  her  father's  acres  fall 
Just  without  the  abbey  wall ; 

By  the  cool  well  loiteringly 
The  shaggy  Norman  horses  stray, 
In  the  thatch  the  pigeons  play, 
And  the  forest  round  alway 

Folds  the  hamlet,  like  a  sea. 

Far  forgotten  all  the  feud 

In  my  New  World's  childhood  haunts. 
If  my  childhood  she  renewed 

In  this  pleasant  nook  of  France ; 
Might  she  make  the  bleuze  I  wear. 
Welcome,  then,  her  homely  fare 

And  her  sensuous  religion  ! 
To  the  market  we  should  ride. 
In  the  Mass  kneel  side  by  side. 
Might  I  warm,  each  eventide. 

In  my  nest,  my  pretty  pigeon  ! 
1864. 


THE  FIB  ST  HUN  GEE  245 


THE   FIRST   HUNGER 

The  apples  are  water,  Dearest, 
The  dates  are  only  sweet. 

There  is  no  flesh  in  the  juice  of  the  grape, 
Nor  life  in  the  berry  we  eat ! 

In  the  blood  of  the  kid  we  have  slain 
In  our  new  and  terrible  greed. 
Lie  the  gristle  and  marrow  we  need, — 

In  the  pitiful  yield  of  the  grain : 

The  barley  that  beards  the  wild  rain. 
The  corn  that  the  crow  contests. 
The  milk  in  the  white  wheat's  breasts,  — 

Behold  my  red  hands  as  I  speak, 

And  the  curse  of  the  sweat  on  my  cheek ! 

The  garden  was  all  before  us 

Where  reaches  to-day  a  waste. 
Its  plentiful  clusters  o'er  us. 

Eternity  in  their  taste ; 
I  could  lie  in  your  tresses,  and  reach 

In  the  roses,  the  flush  of  the  South ; 

Power  fell,  with  the  figs,  in  my  mouth, 
And  youth  in  the  bite  of  the  peach ; 
I  am  weary,  but  still  they  beseech,  — 

These  sinews,  that  hunger  and  thirst 

In  their  famine  the  fiercest  and  first ; 
And  thine  eyes,  where  love's  wishes  I  read. 
Look  the  eloquence  only  of  —  bread. 

No  more  shall  the  noons  be  luscious. 
The  nights  be  tender  strolls. 


246  POEMS 

Sweet  sleep  delightful  hushes 

In  the  fond  talk  of  our  souls ; 
Yoked  this  stature,  thou  praised,  to  the  clod. 
Farewell  to  the  leisure  so  dear ! 
No  more  by  the  streams  shall  we  hear 
The  intimate  thoughts  of  our  God, 
But  harrow  our  hearts  with  the  sod,  — 
Dismissed  our  high  quests  to  the  winds, 
And  the  infinite  wish  of  our  minds. 
And  the  beautiful  dreams  that  we  prize. 
Like  the  birds  that  forsake  Paradise. 

I  must  seek  so  late  thy  kisses. 
So  soon  thy  side  discard, 

And  my  tenderest  caresses 
Bestow  with  hands  so  hard. 

It  is  not  for  my  lot  that  I  plead. 
Too  proud  at  my  burden  to  groan, 
Nor  yet,  O  my  wife !  for  thine  own, 

But  the  races  of  men  which  succeed : 

The  cannibal  children  of  greed. 

Who  fight  at  the  bosom  they  crave, 
And  walk  from  the  cradle  to  slave, 

Till  populous  hunger  shall  shed 

The  blood  of  its  brethren  for  bread. 

The  world  from  the  sun  slips  farther. 

As  we  far  from  God's  face ; 
There  is  war  declared  eternal 

'Twixt  nature  and  our  race. 
But  it  is  not  the  end  that  we  dread ; 

Fighting  up  to  God's  feet  as  we  toil, 


POE  247 

We  shall  trample  this  curse  from  the  soil, 
And  conquer  the  bondage  of  bread, 
Making  Nature  our  slave  in  our  stead. 
Till  the  frost  shall  say  truce,  and  the  rain 
Draw  near,  at  the  beck  of  the  grain. 
And  our  sons,  with  the  sheaves  at  their  knee, 
Reach  again  of  the  fruit  of  the  tree. 
1865. 


DE  WITT   CLINTON 

In  thy  Dutch  veins  thy  Irish  current  ran, 
A  tempest  in  the  phlegm  of  a  canal; 
Hibernian  spirits  made  thee  partisan, 
De  Witt  milk  tranquilized  thee  cosmical  1 
Wasted  thy  youth  in  faction's  offices 
Thy  lofty  mind  thy  scullions  drove  afar. 
And,  looking  downward  from  thy  banished  star, 
Thou  saw'st  an  isthmian  labor  like  to  Suez 
When  Amrou  slashed  it  with  his  scimeter  : 
Niagara's  dam  to  Amsterdam  to  draw, 
The  Indian  oceans  through  the  lunar  Nile 
And  to  another  Persia  give  access  ! 
Letters  and  Physics  are  the  stones  of  Law : 
Thy  inspiration  makes  an  empire  smile. 


POE 

Kepler  of  verse !  who  beauty's  starry  laws 
Didst  rescue  and  her  orbits  calculate  ! 


248  POEMS 

Thou  hadst  no  prince,  no  Tycho,  in  thy  cause, 

No  fellow-centre  for  thy  solar  mate ; 
A  dark  polemic  age  hollow  applause 

Gave  to  the  weird  ellipsis  of  thy  fate. 
But  thou  art  in  the  heavens  like  a  pause. 

Like  Al  Aaraf's  swift  and  unearthly  date, 
A  diadem'd  outlaw  like  Tamerlane. 

Thy  heart  strings  were  a  lute  like  Israfel's, 
The  raven  led  thy  fame  to  Ulalume  ; 

Thou  art  the  Psyche  unto  Sappho's  pain. 
So  sibylline  the  leaflets  from  thy  plume 

They  sigh  like  Orpheus  melting  Pluto's  spells. 


BYRON 

First  Englishman  to  hail  my  country's  scions  — 

Henry,  Boon,  Washington,  —  in  courtly  rhyme  ! 
"Still  one  great  clime  in  full  and  free  defiance 

Yet  rears  her  crest  unconquered  and  sublime," 
And  hears  thy  trumpet  of  la  belle  alliance  : 

Tyrtaeus,  to  whose  overture  we  chime ! 
Old  friends  are  dearest :  as  I  read  agog. 

In  youth  the  rich  invective  of  thy  verse, 
I  stood  beside  the  trophy  of  thy  dog 

At  Newstead,  as  by  tender  ^sop's  hearse, 
And  felt  that  man  and  nature  were  thy  debtors. 

That  thou  wert  noble  by  thy  discontent. 
That  thou  hadst  widened  heart  and  thought  and 
letters 

And  breathed  afar  the  glorious  Occident. 


THE  SOUL-DEIVER  249 


JOHN   JAY 

Among  the  portraits  of  thy  Federalists, 

In  thy  old  Bedford  manse  upon  the  Highlands, 
Where,  bathed  beneath  thee  in  the  snow  or  mists, 

Manhattan's  Greece  tints  its  ^Egean  islands, 
I^see  thee  life's  full  third  pass  in  thy  grot 

But  in  no  monkish  mummeries  enshrined  !  — 
The  soul  undaunted  of  the  Huguenot 

Built  his  God's  temple  in  his  classic  mind. 
"Washington  was  thy  Henrj^  of  Navarre  ; 

For  him  thou  held  thy  state  in  loyal  fief. 
His  mystic  presence  to  the  knightly  bar. 

His  dove-winged  envoy  to  our  kinsman  chief. 
Thou,  Sully  I  with  thy  eagle  quill  at  work, 

Wert  Zeus  at  the  birth-throes  of  New  York ! 


THE   SOUL-DRrV'ER 

The  child's  awe  that  I  felt  of  Slavery, 

When  from  our  door  they  dragged  the  faithful 
cook, 
I  did  not  need  to  join  a  sect  to  see. 

Nor  have  it  preached  at  me  from  any  book ; 
And  when  the  freedmen  wail  the  horrid  laws 

And  massacre  is  slavery's  aftermath, 
I  only  feel  what  the  volcano  was 

From  these  red  lavas  of  its  senile  wrath. 
He  who  was  absolute  must  sometimes  kill, 

His  Berber  sons  arrest  the  mails  of  light, 
His  nation  float  his  soon  forgotten  bill, 


250  POEMS 

Its  flag  and  trade  be  halted  for  his  spite. 
When  absolution  tempts  me  with  its  fruit, 
I  think  that  Slavery  was  absolute. 

PSYCHfi 

Thou  art  but  child ;  thy  willow  limbs 

Have  hardly  set  their  mould ; 
Light  of  the  fawn,  thy  large  eye  brims. 

Thy  hair  is  spun  of  gold  ; 
So  perfect  is  the  woman's  might 

Within  thy  tendril's  move. 
My  look  meets  thine  almost  in  fright : 

Hast  thou  conjectured  love  ? 

Thy  sex's  power  at  once  begins, 

When  it  has  one  day's  bloom, 
And  man's  supremest  homage  wins 

When  he  draws  near  his  tomb ; 
Thy  youth,  for  which  he  hungereth, 

Is  aU  that  can  contain 
His  immortality  from  death : 

By  love  he  hves  again. 

LINN^US 

Carl  Von  Linn  fell  in  the  leashes 

Of  a  female  hind  : 
Nature  is  a  fight  for  Species, 

Not  for  morals  nor  for  mind ; 
"  Lo !  the  lilies,"  spoke  the  teacher, 

"  Looking  not  above, 
How  their  clothes  outshine  the  preacher, 


WILLIAM  PENN 

Dyed  in  purpling  love  !  " 
Through  the  air,  a  blood-clrop  fallen, 

Speeds  the  red  bird  free, 
Carrying  the  golden  pollen 

To  the  female  tree  ; 
So  the  Swede,  in  passion  richest, 

Straight  at  Nature  aims  ; 
He  who  flushed  the  Magdalena 

Fetched  the  flowers.  Names. 
Stockholm,  1889. 


WILLIAM  PENN 

(HEPWORTH  DIXON'S  LIFE) 

Manly  teller  of  the  tale ! 
Thou  hast  made  me  thrill  and  pale. 
Almost  tears  have  dimmed  the  page, 
I  have  felt  in  Penn's  own  age. 

His  the  nature  one  appeal 
From  a  worldly  life  could  wheel,  — 
Quit  the  brink  of  rank  and  rule 
To  go  live  with  ridicule ; 

For  his  soul  decision  had. 
To  part  instant  with  the  bad. 
And  from  youth  full  stature  find 
For  the  conscience  in  his  mind ; 

Not  the  wigged  court  to  gain. 
But  be  noble  with  the  plain. 
In  his  hat  he  talked  to  kings 
On  the  plane  of  kingly  things, 


251 


252  POEMS 

Till  his  father's  giant  pride 
Humbled  his  strange  son's  beside, 
Seeing  that  he  did  not  quail 
Rotting  in  the  stinking  jail. 

Treading  down  the  earth's  contempt 
Dreams  high-hearted  aye  he  dreamt, 
Grasped  across  the  ocean's  health 
More  than  Milton's  Commonwealth; 

And  he  touched  it  with  his  hand. 
And  he  landed  in  his  land,  — 
Brought  the  persecuted  in ; 
Made  them  of  his  wish  the  kin. 

Pennsylvania,  wholesome  grove ! 
Philadelphia,  brother's  love ! 
There  the  Continental  men 
Wrote  the  will  of  William  Penn. 


DEFOE 

Born  a  Foe,  he  sought  out  foes, 
(There  are  always  hosts  of  those  ;  ) 
Writing  for  the  grown  folks,  he 
Gained  the  height  of  pillory. 
Then  he  sat,  Himself  before, 
Solitary,  shipwrecked,  poor. 
And  gave  forth  his  lonely  joys 
To  the  fresh  hearts  of  the  boys : 
Entering  there,  the  world  was  won. 
All  the  world  knew  Robinson ! 


BliOOKLYX  BRIDGE   TOWERS         253 
BROOKLYN    BRIDGE   TOWERS 

(AS   U>-COXXECTED) 
BRONTES. 

Brother  !  are  you  waiting 

Faithfully  for  me  ? 
Stand  fast  and  at  last 

I'll  reach  my  hair  to  thee. 
Though  of  vacant  sight, 

Blindly  we  are  feeling 
Tow'rd  each  other,  till  the  light, 

Through  our  sockets  stealing 
O'er  the  stream,  in  one  beam 

Shall  meet,  and  see  ! 

ARGES. 

Brother  I  I  am  listening 

To  the  words  you  say, 
As  they  reach  me,  whistling 

Across  the  windy  bay. 
Though  my  feet  are  cold, 

And  they  long  divide  us. 
Here  I'll  hold  till  I  am  old ; 

Our  echoes  shall  provide  us 
On  bounding  feet  a  pathway  fleet, 

Till  we  behold ! 

bront:6s. 


Like  two  gates  asunder 
Something  swings  between 


254  POEMS 

On  our  heads  the  thunder 

Strikes.     We  stand  serene ! 
Earliest  on  our  brows, 

Still  the  latest  tarry 
The  rosy  clouds ;  the  birds  in  crowds 

Sail  round  to  see  us  marry. 
We  will  win,  though,  my  twin, 

Waves  intervene ! 

arg:^s. 

Hark,  behind !  the  churches 

Faintly  lift  their  bells. 
And  far  below  come  and  go 

The  city's  hollow  swells  ; 
Frightened  ferry  fleets 

Disappear  in  vapor. 
And  the  camps  of  twinkling  lamps 

Struggle  for  a  taper. 
To  them  all,  starry  tall, 

We  are  sentinels ! 

BRONTES. 

Aye  !  I  cannot  see  them. 

Yet  I  feel  them  there ; 
And  clambering  stars  their  silver  bars 

Wind  o'er  me  like  a  stair. 
Brother,  does  a  pulse 

Start  not  in  thy  shoulder. 
For  a  mystic  destiny,  — 

Something  better,  bolder  — 
When  the  rainbow  its  skein 

Twineth  in  air  ? 


BABTHOLDI'S   PHABOS  255 

AEG^S. 

Yes !  A  host  of  spirits 

In  procession  creep 
O'er  me  silently, 

From  darkened  deeps  of  sleep. 
Far  away  I  hear 

Wheels  imperious  driven 
Up  the  heights  of  the  atmosphere, 

By  the  image  of  Heaven ! 
His  path  we  span,  and,  brother !  Man 
Is  the  charioteer ! 
1875. 


BARTHOLDI'S   PHAROS 

(RECITED  AT  THE   LOTOS   CLUB  DINNER,  NOV.  14,  1884) 

Manhattan  Bay  in  glory  lay 

When  Verrazano  entered ; 
His  heart  was  cold,  on  thoughts  of  gold 

And  ivory  concentred : 
"  Now  go  about  and  sail  we  out !  — 

Although  this  scene  entrances  ; 
For  we  Italians  seek  rich  mines, 

To  satisfy  King  Francis." 

The  Portugee  came  in  from  sea, 

Sir  Estevan  de  Gomez ; 
"  I  smell,"  said  he,  "  no  spicery 

Nor  gum,  such  as  at  home  is ; 
King  Charles  of  Spain,  he  would  raise  Cain 

And  cuss-words  use  terrific, 


256  POEMS 

If  we  clove  not  this  granite  main 
To  cloves  of  the  Pacific." 

The  Half -Moon  next  our  harbor  vexed  — 

The  Dutchman  made  appearance  — 
The  Northwest  Passage  was  his  text, 

And  Albany  his  clearance  ; 
The  Indian  damsels  pleased  his  ways, — 

He  was  a  gay  deceiver,  — 
And  nothing  met  his  sordid  praise 

But  buffalo  and  beaver. 

Next  came  Lord  Howe,  guns  at  his  prow, 

His  nose  and  clothes  vermilion, 
With  Hessian  bayonets,  to  plough 

The  hills  around  new  Ilion ; 
Seven  years  the  fleet  stayed  here  to  eat,  — 

King  George  he  paid  the  ration,  — 
Till  French  and  Yankees  down  the  street 

Saw  an  evacuation. 

The  artisan  American 

Came  now  —  a  buoyant  schemer  — 
With  fleets  of  fire-winged  birds  to  span 

The  shores  with  many  a  steamer. 
At  Fulton's  wand  our  sparkling  pond 

Leaped  into  life  and  duty, 
But  nothing  came  to  correspond 

Unto  the  sense  of  Beauty. 

The  gold  we  made,  the  South-Sea  trade. 

The  peltries  and  the  spices. 
And  mechanisms,  like  crystal  prisms. 


PHYSICAL  HOMAGE  257 

Refracted  our  devices. 
Yet  in  the  heart  the  spell  of  Art 

Slept,  like  the  winter  throstle, 
Or  Faith,  in  old  Diana's  mart, 

Awaiting  an  apostle. 

The  son  of  France  his  kindling  glance 

Threw  o'er  this  radiant  Edom, 
And  like  a  Bayard  of  romance 

Knelt  to  the  strength  of  Freedom ; 
He  saw  arise  athwart  our  skies 

A  Goddess  ever  living, 
Illumination  in  her  eyes. 

And  flame  to  darkness  giving. 

Lift  high  thy  torch  and  forward  march, 

O  dame  of  Revolution !  — 
All  heaven  thy  triumphal  arch. 

All  progress  the  solution ; 
And  from  the  earth  and  all  its  dross 

May  man  behold  the  story  — 
Friendship  is  pious  as  the  cross, 

And  only  Art  is  glory  ! 


PHYSICAL  HOMAGE 

When  in  the  bath  men  strip  together, 
A  perfect  man  has  admiration. 

The  mould  of  grace,  the  thews  of  leather, 
The  noble  port  of  native  station; 


258  POEMS 

No  more  excelleth  moral  duty, 
The  master  mind  appears  a  fakir ; 

But  procreant  health  and  manly  beauty 
Become  the  image  of  their  Maker. 

When  to  the  life  the  beauteous  creature, 

The  woman,  walks,  behold  the  wonder ! 
Divinity  in  every  feature. 

Her  worshippers  are  rent  asunder; 
Her  beauty  rules  her  moral  being, 

Like  genius  is  her  stately  doing, 
The  regent  of  the  Ever-seeing, 

She  bends  the  heavens  to  her  wooing. 

The  beauty  of  the  worlds  in  motion 

Attracts  each  other  in  their  courses; 
Space  has  its  wooings  like  the  ocean. 

And  planets  feel  persuasive  forces ; 
Perfection  everything  convulses. 

Beauty  is  moral  elevation. 
The  sjTnmetry  that  stii-s  our  pulses. 

Is  an  eternal  admiration. 

Health  and  selection,  joy  determine. 

Their  progeny  our  orb  inherit; 
"  Behold  the  lilies  !  "  saith  the  sermon : 

Beauty  is  the  immortal  spirit. 
What  is  unlovely  shall  not  witness 

Final  survival  of  the  fitting. 
And  separating  foul  from  fitness, 

Venus  to  judge  the  world  is  sitting. 


FBOM  GAPLAND  259 


ROWDY   SHAH 

There  once  was  a  shah  of  Persia, 

Common  and  rowdy  and  pert, 
Who  married  by  hundreds,  virgins. 

To  strip  them  and  slide  them  in  dirt; 
A  platform  over  a  mudhole 

He  built  with  precipitous  slides. 
And  called  on  the  court  and  people 

To  see  how  he  muddied  his  brides. 

The  fine  Events  that  are  blushing  — 
The  newspapers  strip  them  of  pride; 

And  I  think  of  the  Shah  and  the  mud-hole, 
As  I  see  them  rushed  down  the  slide. 


FROM   GAPLAND 

How  blue  the  mountain  is  to-day ! 
It  is  not  half  so  far  away. 
Distinct  on  it  the  shadows  play ; 
Above  it  a  long  band  of  light, 
Below  it  a  long  band  of  land, 
Revealed  in  shocks  of  gathered  corn. 
In  village  spires,  wax-candle  white. 
And  fields  like  a  wide-open  hand. 
Shining  from  a  reversed  morn 
Below  those  hills  so  blue  to-day. 

The  clouds  those  hills,  so  blue  to-day. 
Seem  to  throw  upward  as  they  lay. 


260  POEMS 

From  that  bright  landscape's  underplay. 
Make  all  that  blueness  far  away. 
The  clouds  our  lives  project  above 
Follow  so  close  our  long  career, ' 
They  paint  it  with  distinctive  strength, 
They  bring  it  nearer  human  love, 
Tone  it  like  echoes  to  the  ear, 
And  accent  through  their  graceful  length 
The  heights  that  are  so  dark  to-day. 


MORSE 

The  simplest  life  told  well 's  a  treat. 

One  push  makes  any  life  complete  ; 

One  grapple  with  our  deadly  fears 

Carries  us  to  victorious  years : 

One  night  in  the  dark  with  foes  at  hand, 

A  starving  year  in  a  foreign  land. 

To  hold  a  pen  and  take  a  stand : 

The  effort  is  the  fort  betaken. 

The  bolder  that  your  heart  is  shaken ; 

And  every  young  accomplishment 

Is  a  lady  in  the  soldier's  tent. 

When  all  but  avarice  is  sated, 

And  thou  hast  lived  with  her  thou  mated, 

Tell  all  thou  didst  with  truthfulness,  — 

Thy  book  shall  also  be  success  ! 


'''MAKE  ME  A  LAP''  261 


"MAKE   ME   A   LAP" 


Back  in  those  days  ere  I  thought  of  love, 
Kissing  at  games  in  a  picnic  grove, 
Cried  one  lass  as  she  made  a  spring : 
-"  Make  me  a  Lap !  you  stingy  thing !  " 
Down  in  my  lap  sat  the  tired  madcap 
And  in  a  snap  she  had  "  made  her  a  Lap. ' 

Lissome,  pliant,  innocent  vine, 

Still  to  my  heart  I  can  feel  her  twine. 

Trustfully  as  my  kitten's  play, 

Light  as  the  birds  in  that  greenwood  day ; 

Sweet  as  the  sap  in  the  fruit  tree's  tap. 

Vine-like  her  wrap  as  I  "  made  her  a  Lap." 

Country  heart !  there  is  no  mishap,  — 
Some  good  husband  has  "  made  thee  a  Lap  " ; 
In  thy  lap  to  thy  trust's  behove. 
Children  sprmg  in  the  gush  of  love  : 
Thou  had'st  no  trap  of  "  setting  thy  cap," 
Teaching  a  chap  how  to  "  make  thee  a  Lap." 

Earth  is  wide  but  its  infinite  map 

Is  peopled  by  courage  that  leaped  in  a  Lap. 

Cold,  prude  hearts  that  would  Love  go  round 

Consolation  have  partly  found. 

Boldly  they  rap  who  would  wake  from  his  nap 

The  partner  whose  snap  can  "  make  them  a  Lap." 

Widow  young  I  whose  grief  has  been  true. 
But  who  has  brightened  to  life  anew ! 


262  POEMS 

There  is  a  lonely  man  somewhere 
Waiting  for  thee  if  thou  wouldst  but  dare : 
Fill  up  the  gap  in  his  life's  mishap ! 
Set  him  thy  cap !  he  can  "  make  thee  a  Lap." 

Maid,  too  long !  art  thou  not  exact  ? 

Not  far  off  must  thy  worth  attract. 

Do  not  shrink  from  the  fate  to  be ! 

How  did  thy  mother  love  for  thee  ? 

Smooth  thy  rough  nap !  for  thyself  keep  no  scrap ! 

So  did  it  hap  ere  She  "  made  thee  a  Lap." 

Man  to  man,  be  not  too  removed ! 

Bashful  friendship  is  not  oft  loved. 

Thou  must  leap  in  the  heart  of  thy  friend, 

If  he  would  carry  thee  out  to  life's  end. 

Throw  up  thy  cap !     Say,  "  Love  me,  old  chap !  " 

Thou  wilt  be  loved ;  he  wUl  "  make  thee  a  Lap." 

Father !  Son !  if  there  come  a  space 
'Twixt  your  affectionate  embrace, 
Let  it  not  grow  o'ershadowing  home,  — 
Ye  must  kiss  in  the  death  to  come  ! 
Close  up  the  gap  ;  ye  have  mutual  sap : 
Sonny  and  pap !  "  make  each  other  a  Lap ! " 


FIRST   BLACKBIRDS 

As  IJsit  at  my  window  bay 

Just  o'er  a  Gap's  abyss, 
A  sound  mysterious  comes  my  way  — 

It  sounds  so  like  a  kiss  I 


FIEST  BLACKBIBBS  263 

Who  is  it,  kissing  fierce  and  fast 

Within  my  library  ?  — 
As  I  kissed  her  I  caught  at  last 

When  I  was  young  as  she  ? 

No,  'tis  not  there,  though  kisses  were  — 

They  come  up  from  the  woods ; 
Are  angels  kissing  in  the  air, 

Or  mountain  girls,  in  hoods  ? 
With  smacks  like  those,  old  satyrs  wooed 

Cold  n}Tnphs  a  stream  conceives  : 
(Such  kisses  leave  babes  in  the  wood 

Among  the  trampled  leaves.) 

It  sounds  like  fright  and  appetite, 

Complaint  and  jubilee, 
Like  sleighbells  coming  in  the  night, 

And  boiling  punch,  or  tea. 
So  ends  this  last  of  mysteries 

As  I  my  door  unlock  : 
It  is  the  blackbirds  in  my  trees, 

The  first  October  flock ! 

I  start  them  from  their  chilly  roost,  — 

They  fly  like  bolts  from  bows ; 
Like  inky  authors,  bedlam-loosed, 

Who  mui-miir  and  compose. 
StUl  crackles  all  the  morn  like  frost. 

That  sighing  music  is  ; 
It  says  that  summer's  something  lost. 

And  life  a  farewell  kiss. 


264  POEMS 

The  earth  shall  some  day  cool  and  we  — 

We  know  not  what  or  for  — 
Will  flock  together  dismally 

Along  the  Equator. 
But  life  will  dye  the  snowflake  red, 

As  long  as  it  can  float, 
And  from  the  frozen  sun  o'erhead 

Will  kiss  the  blackbird's  note  ! 


HANGING  LAMP 

I  WISH  my  father  had  the  story  known  — 

Its  interest  his  sermon  would  have  nerved  — 
How  the  cathedral  lamp  was  ever  blown 
That  Galileo  with  his  pulse  observed, 

And   as   it   swung,   he    counted   his   heart's 

beating. 
And  planned  a  miracle  in  that  dull  meeting. 

Imagination  came  to  me,  I  wot. 

In  those  old  churches  by  the  piney  forest, 
But  mathematics  was  not  in  my  thought, 

Not  measure  in  the  bawling  Christian  chorist ; 
Romance,  that  is  theology  again, 
I  drank  in  church  and  useless  am  to  men. 

O,  had  the  dogma  with  some  wise  restrainting 
Child-fancy  forced  on  grooves  exact  to  swerve. 

As  old  Mahomet  did  forbid  them  painting 

And  made  them  draw  the  cosine  and  the  curve. 

In  algebraic  strength  I  had  projected 

More  than  Aladdin's  lamp  ways  did  traverse. 


AS   THE   CBOW  FLIES  265 

And  into  heaven  passed  the  God-elected 
Among  the  sure  feet  of  astronomers. 

The  Popes  who  Copernik  were  negativing 

And  Galileo  silenced  but  not  sieved, 
Were  not  as  ignorant  as  preachers  living 

Who  know  not  Copernik  has  ever  lived, 
But  follow  heathens  in  their  horrid  fearing 

Of  horned  Gods  like  Babylonian  kings, 
While  Learning  bends  the  heavens  with  persevering. 
And  parting  symbols,  finds  eternal  Things,  — 

Finds  not  our  human  semblance  domineering, 
But  motion  as  susceptible  as  strong. 

Worlds  without  end  exquisitely  insphering 
And  praise  intuning,  tenderer  than  song. 

For  us,  the  heirs  of  countless  predecessors, 

By  Time  unanxious  to  our  boyhood  brought, 
We  do  not  enter  Nature  as  transgressors. 

But  on  our  hand  the  signet  ring  of  Thought ; 
Death  is  our  mellowing ;  facts  kill  its  terrors  : 

Both  Birth  and  Death  hke  noble  brethren  go. 
The  sum  of  our  exaggerated  errors 

Is  that  we  romanced,  and  we  did  not  know. 


AS   THE   CROW   FLIES 

The  air  paths  go  unto  homes  we  do  not  know. 

But  we  see  that  the  birds  fly  straight ; 
They  have  errands  where  the  bow 
Gilds  the  storm  and  in  the  glow 


T 


^ 


266  POEMS 

That  is  rosy  at  the  sunset's  gate : 

As  the  dove  flies, 

As  the  crow  flies, 
At  the  end  of  everywhere  is  a  mate. 

The  soul's  paths  go  to  a  home  they  cannot  show, 

But  not  to  a  home  of  hate ; 
As  the  stag  to  seek  his  doe, 
As  the  arrow  from  the  bow, 
The  errand  of  the  soul  is  straight : 

As  the  dove  flies, 

As  the  crow  flies. 
Darts  the  soul  that  is  homesick  to  its  mate. 

The  seed  paths  go  to  a  home  far  down  below. 
But  we  know  that  the  sprouts  rise  straight 
To  the  light  that  is  aglow. 
To  the  air  that  kindles  so. 
To  the  heaven  of  the  recreate : 

As  the  dove  flies, 

As  the  crow  flies, 
The  errand  of  the  flower  is  to  mate. 

The  rain  paths  go  to  the  caves  of  frost  and  snow. 

But  we  see  that  the  springs  flow  straight 
To  the  fields  the  farmers  mow. 
To  the  cattle  lowing  low. 

To  the  rivers  that  are  wide  and  great : 

As  the  dove  flies. 

As  the  crow  flies, 
The  spirits  in  the  elements  must  mate. 


IROIf  HILL  267 

The  world's  paths  go  upon  arcs  so  calm  and  slow, 

That  we  know  not  we  course  like  fate, 
But  the  stars  in  groups  that  go 
Sired  the  planets  twinkling  low, 
And  the  universes  pair  in  state  : 

As  the  dove  flies, 

As  the  crow  flies. 
Flash  the  lights,  never  meeting,  to  their  mate. 

Forever,  loving  man !  drive  on  thy  caravan  I 

Thou  canst  not  be  selfish  and  great ; 
For  what  is  thy  little  span 
To  the  universal  plan, 
And  the  faith  of  the  congregate  ? 

As  the  dove  flies. 

As  the  crow  flies. 
Immortality  seek  in  thy  mate. 


IRON   HILL 

(DELAWARE) 

Yon  blue  plateau  to  all  seems  low, 
Whose  minds  some  mountain  fills. 
Except  us  there  in  Delaware, 
Who  ne'er  saw  higher  hills ; 
At  Newark's  'old  academy, 
It  almost  shook  our  will, 
To  walk  so  far  and  scale  that  bar 
The  dome  of  Iron  hill. 

On  holidays  we  saw  the  haze 
Around  its  woodlands  lie ; 


268  POEMS 

To  climb  those  goals,  our  level  souls 

Seemed  tempting  destiny ; 

The  lesser  boys  they  cease  their  noise 

And  hold  their  laughter  still, 

To  come  more  near  those  heights  of  fear. 

On  shaggy  Iron  hill. 

Beneath  its  head  the  iron,  red. 
Of  ancient  ore  banks  stood, 
Where  gobhn  Swedes  their  evil  deeds 
Revealed  in  stains  of  blood ; 
Their  metal  arts  our  country  hearts 
Uncanny  thought  and  ill,  — 
From  murdered  man  the  oxides  ran 
That  tinctured  Iron  liill ! 

The  tombs  we  search  at  old  Welsh  church 

That  guards  the  cairn's  ascent ; 

In  Cymric  writ,  those  stones  of  grit 

Increase  our  fear's  ferment : 

Beneath,  the  dead,  above  blood,  red !  — 

The  lonely  wood  paths  thrill 

Our  ghost-awed  wits ;  the  old  ore  pits 

Seem  graves  on  Iron  hill ! 

We  think  we  see  from  some  tall  tree. 

The  blue-veined  landscapes,  where 

One  far-off  streak  is  Chesapeake, 

Another  Delaware ; 

Their  long  white  length  this  knoll  has  strength 

To  sunder  by  its  will ; 

It  disarrays  those  mighty  bays  — 

The  wand  of  Iron  hill. 


BUILDING 

In  those  small  years,  upon  sucli  fears 

My  fancy  learned  to  thrill. 

An  elevation  on  me  lay,  — 

The  swell  of  Iron  hill. 

The  misty  moods  of  altitudes, 

Romance's  glow  and  chill ; 

And  not  more  high  Mount  Sinai 

To  me,  than  Iron  hill. 


BUILDING 

The  mountain  summit  grows  apace 

With  walls  and  walks  and  spires, 
The  tribute  to  ancestral  place 

By  one  of  waning  fires, 
Who  never  loved  but  haunts  of  men. 

And  earned  in  cities,  bread, 
Yet  sought  the  shaggy  rock  and  glen 

To  lay,  at  last,  his  head. 

The  thrill  of  Nature  in  his  craze 

Was  like  his  love  of  play  — 
Medicinal  for  some  brief  days, 

And,  then,  to  turn  away  : 
To  try  the  mart  and  measure  Art 

With  captains  of  his  guild. 
Then,  in  the  lonely  mountain's  heart. 

To  dig  and  plan  and  build. 

His  habitation  who  can  know. 

When  life  is  but  a  breath  ? 
Or  that  his  bones  are  safe  below 
The  cheerless  den  of  death? 


269 


270  POEMS 

Yet,  in  their  day,  all  builded  well,  — 
Like  warrior  ants  their  hills,  — 

And  tender  beauty  haunts  the  cell 
Taste  and  Industry  wills. 

No  house  stands  faster  than  this  earth 

Which  no  abiding  gives, 
Yet  love  and  hope  and  faith  and  birth 

Build,  while  the  changeling  lives. 
Our  heaven  is  promised  mansions,  too, 

Not  made  with  human  hod, 
As  if  the  angels  nothing  knew 

Like  Building  round  their  God. 

So  if  we  leave  where  nothing  stood 

Some  structure  pure  and  true. 
Succeeding  times  will  count  it  good 

And  others  learn  to  do. 
The  bookman's  art  is  left  behind 

And  letters  only  vex ; 
Write,  then  in  stone,  ye  men  of  mind ! 

And  live  as  architects  ! 


BOCCACCIO 

Religion  is  of  sex,  love  sacramental, 
So  say  the  physiologists  of  love. 

Then  is  not  Literature  testamental 

Born  of  the  soiled  and  unangelic  dove  ? 

Boccaccio,  gallant  of  light  Maria ! 

In  thy  amour  Italian  language  sprang 

More  than  from  Dante's  stately  Jeremiah 


OLD  KENT  271 

Or  Petrarch's  lute  that  had  the  proper  twang ; 
Thy  look  upon  King  Robert's  daughter,  mated, 

Thy  tales  blushed  into  progeny  impure, 
The  tongues  of  Europe  were  articulated 

And  stolen  kisses  started  Literature. 
Out  of  the  ages  black  and  castellated, 

There  climbed  the  lawless  and  luxuriant  vine, 
And  Christian  lore,  when  love  was  satiated, 

Told  legends  of  the  Heavens  concubine. 
Monks  shrinking  from  the  tender  imitation, 

Sang  in  the  chorus  of  the  passion-blest. 
And  in  the  hives  of  Romanesque  creation 

Returned  the  Isis-bee  of  human  rest. 
So,  Europe's  Letters  broke  the  dungeon  portal ; 

Love's  spasms  set  all  tongues  to  twittering ! 
Love,  only  Love,  can  feed  the  life  immortal ! 

When  love  is  rested  angels  cannot  sing. 


OLD   KENT 

I  AM  back  in  the  court-house  village ; 

The  houses  remam  as  before ; 
One  or  two  old  roofs  may  have  perished. 

But  the  neighbors  have  builded  no  more ; 
The  river  creeps  under  the  drawbridge, 

The  wharves  are  a  little  more  rotten, 
The  streets  are  as  grassy  and  sandy. 

And  the  college  more  lone  and  forgotten. 

It  is  sad  that  the  faces  are  stranger 
When  the  place  so  familiar  appears ! 


272  POEMS 

I  came  with  my  heart  expectant, — 

It  is  only  twenty  years ; 
But  the  big  boys  stare  at  me  queerly, 

And  the  little  boys  flatter  my  tailor, 
While  the  old  men  look  suspicious 

From  the  constable  down  to  the  jailer. 

Only  the  innkeeper  greets  me 

Like  the  long-expected  one, 
And  makes  me  believe  a  little 

In  the  tale  of  the  prodigal  son ; 
The  fatted  calf  he  slaughters, 

The  calf  that  is  tough  and  arid, 
Like  the  townsfolk's  beauteous  daughters, 

Who  have  all  "  gone  off  and  got  married." 

There  is  Mary,  with  seven  children. 

And  Marion,  jilted  and  wan, 
Saffronia  gone  to  the  shambles, 

And  Emma,  gone  under  the  lawn ; 
Proud  Sally,  an  editor's  conquest,  — 

What  a  fate  for  an  exquisite  creature ! 
And  Margie,  whose  husband  is  richest, 

A  note-shaving  Methodist  preacher. 

Not  so  were  the  old-time  preachers, 

Who  rode  on  this  Eastern  Shore ; 
I  seek  out  the  grim  brick  pai-sonage,  — 

Two  years  'twas  my  father's  door ; 
I  see  blink  northward  the  window, 

In  the  gable  so  broad  and  bulky, 
The  lot  of  grass  for  the  old  gray  mare, 

And  the  stable  for  saddle  and  sulky. 


OLD  KENT  273 

There  was  his  study  lattice 

Where  often  he  wrote  and  prayed ; 
And  there  the  garden  wicket 

Whence  he  came  to  promenade ; 
And  bowed  to  white  and  to  negro,  — 

A  pastor,  no  partisan,  — 
The  women  said :  "  He  is  handsome !  " 

And  the  men  said :  "  A  gentleman !  " 

By  starlight  on  Sunday  morning 

He  kissed  my  mother  adieu, 
And  threaded  the  Necks  of  the  Chesapeake, 

In  the  snow-storm  or  the  dew ; 
Old  cross-roads  chapels  grew  temples 

While  he  lit  with  his  radiant  face. 
The  truest  and  longest  sermons 

That  ever  brought  sinners  to  grace. 

No  priest  of  the  Roman  conclave 

Had  tact  or  bonhommie  more  ; 
■  No  brigand,  armed  to  the  gorget. 

Felt  safer  the  wild  woods  o'er ; 
Priest,  friend,  Franciscan  and  doctor. 

At  length  his  renown  appears,  — 
A  spirit  of  civilization, 

A  statesman  on  man's  frontiers  ! 

And  so,  I  shall  quit  the  village. 

Content  my  escutcheon  to  show ; 
Content  that  nothing  is  stirring. 

But  the  worm  that's  at  work  below, 
And  the  soul  of  the  seed,  hence  wafted. 

Which  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  must  seek, 
In  the  little  old-fashioned  places, 

That  doze  by  the  Chesapeake. 


274  POEMS 

SAINT   GEORGE 

When  I  behold  the  web  around  us  di-awn 

From  infant  pulp  to  ignorance's  end, 

To  forestall  knowledge  and  the  mind  transcend 

With  superstitions  from  the  Arab  dawn ; 

When  I  see  woman,  whether  doe  or  fawn. 

Hold  man's  mind  back  and  her  stag  offspring  bend, 

And  her  one  half  of  our  progression  pawn 

At  Mont  de  Pi^t^ ;   when  I  do  count 

The  unproducing  host  of  medicine  men, 

Who  nibble  learning  on  the  convent  lawn. 

To  low,  like  cattle,  from  their  twilight  pen, 

That  what  we  know  not  is  life's  only  fount : 

I  see  a  task  to  make  my  spirit  mount, 

I  feel  my  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 


OLD   FRANK   BLAIR 

No  more  that  lost  old  twain  to  town 

Shall  trot  in  various  weather  — 
The  broad-brimmed  hat  and  great  coat  brown 

And  snow-white  braids  together ; 
The  snug  green  home  at  Silver  Springs 

One  hermit  less  shalFpension, 
She  waits  to  hear  the  warning  wings 

And  summons  of  ascension. 

Scotch  as  the  pibroch  of  Argyle, 

Hard  as  the  granite  Highland, 
Their  fire  domestic  smoked  the  while. 

Blue  as  o'er  Ellen's  island ; 


OLD  FRANK  BLAIR  275 

And  there  they  nursed  the  loyal  love 

Of  old  Saint  Andrew's  story, 
And  deemed  the  Lord's  high  court  above 

Stern  as  his  reign  of  glory. 

Not  rebel  flames  around  their  roof 

New  Orleans'  guns  could  silence, 
Nor  Freedom's  statue  look  reproof. 

Like  Jackson's  grim  surveillance, 
Which  met  the^traitors  in  their  mart 

And  made  their  leader  tremble, 
And  never  bent  the  statesman's  art 

To  palter  or  dissemble. 

Van  Buren's  long  and  subtle  skill 

And  Benton's  various  knowledge, 
And  stout  Old  Hickory's  lofty  will 

And  Kendall's  lore  of  college. 
And  plastic  grace  of  Silas  Wright, 

Their  golden  era  bounded. 
While  Francis  Blair,  both  squire  and  knight, 

The  Koran's  page  compounded. 

Not  for  the  bondman's  smothered  sighs, 

Nor  labor,  low  and  humble, 
JSe  hailed  the  Northern  columns  rise, 

The  Southron's  kingdom  crumble  ; 
He  only  saw  the  dark  Calhoun 

Above  the  thunderous  action, 
And  Jackson's  spirit,  not  too  soon, 

Ride  forth  to  smite  the  faction ! 


276  POEMS 

The  long  revenge  of  stubborn  years  — 

The  private  vindication  — 
He  heard  above  the  cannoneers, 

When  others  hailed  a  Nation. 
And  scarce  had  victory  stiiick  her  tents,  ■ 

The  feudal  code  revising,  — 
He  felt,  in  hardening  heart  and  sense, 

The  old  reaction  rising. 

The  grass-grown  forts  that  to  his  door 

Brought  bloody  retrospections, 
A  less  irreverent  echo  bore 

Than  Freedom's  full  elections ; 
Yet  neither  back  nor  forward  halt 

The  rival  waves  of  passion ; 
Alack !  the  times  were  all  at  fault  — 

The  Blairs  were  out  of  fashion ! 

And  so,  in  bootless  intrigue  pressed 

His  clannish  boys  their  mettle ; 
And  one,  most  gallant,  passed  to  rest, 

The  other  lived  to  fettle, 
Till  darkness  fell  on  Silver  Springs  — 

Death's  oft-deferred  intention !  — 
But  one  awaits  the  warning  wings 

And  summons  of  ascension. 

Rest  there,  thou  loyal  advocate 

And  undissembled  Hector ! 
Where  o'er  the  sward  the  dome  of  State 
Throws  its  impartial  spectre  ! 


ULYSSES  S.    GBANT  211 

Not  less  than  thou  we  littler  pens 

Forget  in  one  devotion, 
Time's  infinite  circumference, 

And  history's  boundless  ocean. 

1876. 


ULYSSES   S.   GRANT 

MARCH  4,  1869 

Yonder  the  Capitol  stands ;   the  people  perhaps 

are  assembling. 
I  know  the  inaugural  music  by  the  ground  and 

windows  trembling ; 
I  tremble  a  little  myself,  as,  with  a  Cadet's  desire, 
On  the  field  of  Palo  Alto  I  first  went  under  fire. 

My  carriage  waits  at  the  gate ;  the  manes  of  my 

span  are  rippling 
Like  those  of  the  great  wild  studs  I  broke  in  Ohio, 

a  stripling ! 
But  I  never  owned  a  cloak  as  my  coachman's  half 

so  good. 
When  I  reined  down  the  streets  of  St.  Louis  on 

my  wagon-load  of  wood. 

I  know  that  this  is  no  dream ;  my  fancy  was  never 
so  strong 

As  to  dream  a  great  deal  higher  than  just  to  get 
along ; 

And  that  was  enough  for  an  honest  dream  —  as 
Lincoln  used  to  say 

That  better  than  building  castles  was  steady  "  peg- 
ging away." 


278  POEMS 

The  four  gold  stars  on  my  shoulder,  the  sword 

upon  my  hip, 
I  have  put  away  with  my  salesman's  pen  and  my 

teamster's  leather  whip, 
And  perhaps  these  different  keepsakes  my  children 

would  rather  choose 
For  the  symbols  of  their  Father  than  the  Politician's 

screws. 

Still  wise  are  the  politicians,  and  the  fact  that  is 

most  to  be  prized 
In  this  world  of  infinite  wisdom  is.  Nothing  must 

be  despised. 
But  God,  whom  I  thank,  has  thus  far  permitted 

me  success 
By  the  soberest  endeavor  and  a  simple  No  or  Yes. 

I  sat  up  late  last  evening  with  the  speech  I  am  to 
deliver, 

Thinking  again  of  barrack-life  out  on  the  Colum- 
bia river, 

When  I  used  to  conceive  in  the  pipe-smoke  that 
curled  about  my  tent. 

What  sort  of  a  strange  old  chap  might  be  at  the 
head  of  the  government : 

Whether  he  ever  wondered  what  we  poor  Captains 

won, 
With  our  wives  and  babies  camp-bound  by  the 

mud  or  by  the  sun. 
Away  from  civilization  without  a  play  or  a  school, 
Save  the  music  of  a  fifer  or  the  bray  of  a  teamster's 

mule : 


ULTSSES   S.    GBANT  279 

Whether  he  felt  our  impulse  half  Mexico  to  bag, 
Or  to  march  upon   Vancouver's    and  lower  the 

English  flag, 
To  summon  the  Indian  traders  up  to  a  Drum-head 

Court, 
Or  to  court  the  Indian  woman  who  loitered  around 

the  fort. 

It  seemed  a  lost,  lost  youth  to  me,  and  somewhat 

did  I  reck 
The  school  to  Cerro  Gordo,  the  way  to  Chapul- 

tepec, 
When,  by  such  devious  civil  paths,  the  heights  of 

empire  came. 
And  Fame  was  but  an  accident,  and  Power  lived 

close  to  Shame. 

Now,  looking  back,  the  way  seems  plain,  as  from 

the  mountain  crags 
At  doubtful  Chattanooga  I  read  the  signal  flags ; 
The  frontier  post,  the  tannery,  the  farm  of  barren 

land. 
Were  parts  of  the  line  of  battle,  and  Providence 

had  command. 

I  felt  the  guns  of  Sumter  like  old  acquaintances 

Come  back  to  me  in  anger  and  give  but  one 
redress  — 

An  earthquake  split  the  nation,  and  when  the  frag- 
ments blent 

Myself  was  on  the  pinnacle  and  millions  in  the 
rent! 


280  POEMS 

Upon  the  dizzy  height  I  stood,  as  yonder,  looking 

down. 
Stands  Freedom,  poised   upon  her  sword,  above 

the  gazing  town  — 
And  politicians,  creeping  up,  explain  the  State  to  me 
Much  as  the  devil  described  the  world  to  him  of 

Galilee. 

The  drums  I  hear  sound  hollo wer  than  those  which 

beat  to  arms ; 
To  some  they  beat  to  holiday,  to  me  they  beat 

alarms  — 
To  battle-drums  fell  soldiers'  feet  on  sacrifices  bent ; 
These  feet  leave   all   the  battle  to   the   coming 

President. 

Ten  thousand  office-seekers  to  their  own  inaug- 
ural wind ; 

A  million  feeble  partisans  walk  thoughtlessly 
behind. 

When  those  be  disappointed,  then  these  will  be 
malcontent. 

And  still  on  his  lonely  pinnacle  must  stand  the 
President. 

Yet  by  the  strong  attrition  which  crumbled  Trea- 
son's wrath, 

In  summer  or  in  winter  fighting  it  out  on  that 
path, 

I  shall  move  on  the  works  civilian  till  the  govern- 
ment adored 

Of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people  be 
restored ! 


BENJAMIN  HAEBISON  281 


BENJAMIN   HARRISON 

1888 

Hail  to  the  grandson  better 
Than  the  old  grandsire's  fetter 

Of  lands  and  station  I 
Hail  to  dependence  done ! 
Hail  to  the  Harrison 

New  as  the  nation ! 

Wide  lands  of  Sjonmes  may  roll 
In  suck  of  SjTnmes's  hole,  — 

The  pole  star  winking ; 
But  all  the  land  is  his 
Whose  victory  Freedom's  is. 

And  bu-thright,  Thinking. 

The  an\41s  sound  the  gains 
From  melted  slaverj^'s  chains,  — 

The  Bourbon  wonders, 
While  batteries  of  the  mills 
Speak  out  to  all  the  hiUs 

The  furnace  thunders. 

By  God-forsaken  farms 
The  market  city  swarms 

And  ends  dejection, 
Free  ships  the  railways  bear ; 
Free  Trade  is  everywhere 

And  all's  Protection. 


282  POEMS 

Thy  grandsire  British  fought, 
Thy  father  toiled  for  naught 

And  died  unnoted ; 
The  music  of  the  mills 
Can  never  pierce  the  hills 

Where  slaves  are  voted. 

The  late  taskmasters  arm 
And  call  their  hate  Reform, 

And  us  their  Neighbor ; 
None  but  wage-payers  can 
Feed  the  free  artisan 

And  muster  labor ! 

Roll  on,  old  ball !  once  more, 
My  fathers  rolled  of  yore, — 

Roll  mightier,  wider ! 
May  Henry's  cup  come  back 
In  Benjamin's  corn  sack. 

And  all  have  cider ! 


SALT   RIVER  1 

A  STATELY  river  like  a  silent  aisle. 

Led  through  the  cliffs  of  limestone  mile  on  mile. 

And  far  inland  a  green  and  cool  retreat. 

Lay  all  embowered  and  hid  from  human  feet. 

The  laurel  grew  to  arbors  for  repose. 

The  long  blue  grass  was  dyed  by  many  a  rose, 

1  Defeated  candidates  for  the  Presidency  were  long  said  to 
have  "  gone  up  Salt  River." 


SALT  BIVEB  288 

The  high  gray  walls  with  oaks  were  corniced  o'er 

And  dropped  their  creepers  to  the  crystal  shore ; 

And  there  were  walks  in  groves  where  silence  grew 

Profounder  for  the  note  of  the  cuckoo, 

Where  the}-,  the  philosophic  few,  could  walk 

In  high  Arcadian  fellowship  and  talk ; 

Who  climbed  each  step  but  one  of  power's  ascent, 

And,  losing  that,  were  doomed  to  banishment : 

A  little  handful  driven  from  the  sun 

Of  power  to  a  lonelier  Pantheon, 

Here  they  discussed  the  empire  they  resigned 

And  nobler  empires  of  the  human  mind. 

One  year  in  four  the  wafted  vessel  sped; 

A  wounded  eagle  guided  it  o'erhead. 

The  beaten  hero  who  had  lost  a  realm 

Blew  onward  without  mariner  or  helm. 

Fate  filled  the  wind,  nor  foe  nor  friend  pursued, 

But  grander  nature  gave  her  solitude. 

No  more  the  world  its  censure  or  applause 

Heaped  on  his  head,  liis  memory,  or  his  cause. 

Grave  and  respectful  was  his  welcome  made. 

And  immemorial  in  this  high  arcade 

He  kept  converse  with  statesmen  as  they  came, 

And  felt  how  Time  was  kinder  still  than  Fame. 

Once  on  the  strand  they  who  the  sceptre  lost, 
Waited  at  four  years'  close  him  to  accost 
Whose  boat  was  due.     And  oldest  of  them  all 
Was  one  of  figure  soldierly  and  tall ; 
At  Bemis  Heights  an  army  back  he  bore 
And  took  the  sword  their  sullen  General  wore. 


284  POEMS 

For  this  he  sought  to  pierce  the  splendid  sun 
Where  steadier  fortune  set  her  Washington. 
Cast  down  for  such  presumption,  he  abides 
The  oldest  exile  on  these  silent  tides. 

In  stature  less,  but  not  in  spirit  so, 

Stand  two  who  once  were  mortal  foe  and  foe : 

One  fell  before  the  other's  deadly  aim, 

But  all  the  winds  of  Heaven  blew  his  fame ; 

The  other  sought  in  various  empires  place. 

And  lived  a  long  and  solitary  race. 

Still,  as  they  meet  in  this  sequestered  spot, 

Where  mind  is  mind  and  rivalry  is  not, 

The  victim  knows,  perchance,  their  fate  reversed, 

Had  made  the  martyr  of  the  man  accursed. 

Again  in  talk  old  York's  redoubt  they  storm, 

And  at  Quebec  the  ranks  of  Arnold  form ; 

The  Senate's  head  and  the  Exchequer's  source 

Twinkle  with  themes  for  luminous  discourse. 

Riviere  du  Sel !  What  Lethe  flows  in  thee 

Where  such  as  Burr  and  Hamilton  agree  ? 

Who  comes  with  this  judicial,  searching  face  — 
Scotch  in  his  nature.  Southern  in  his  grace  ? 
'Tis  he  a  Congress  chose  to  lead  the  crowd. 
But  to  the  spite  of  rancorous  faction  bowed. 
Two  exiled  here  and  two  who  might  have  been 
Poured  on  his  head  their  jealousy  and  spleen ; 
Since  then,  tumultuous  assemblies  make 
Rulers,  or  exiles  to  this  lonely  lake. 
Yet  serving  well  through  good  or  ill  report, 
None  fear  in  fame  with  Crawford  to  consort. 


SALT  BIYEE  285 

No,  nor  that  trio  yonder  in  the  glen, 
With  heads  of  gods  on  bodies  like  to  men ; 
The  one  whose  eyes  hke  diamonds  in  a  vault 
Might  lead  the  mind  high  heaven  to  assault, 
And  prove  that  God's  intention  was  at  fault : 
None  lost  the  sceptre  with  so  deep  regret, 
No  mind  on  power  was  so  divinely  set. 
None  in  its  fulness  was  more  fit  to  rule. 
None  in  its  loss  to  play  the  graver  fool. 
Still  in  the  wildness  of  his  whitened  hair 
There  lies  the  pallor  of  a  long  despair. 
Rejected  from  his  kingdom  like  a  Saul, 
He  raised  a  prophet  and  foreboded  all. 
Yet  all  he  saw  by  logic  came  to  pass  : 
A  nervous  giant  in  a  house  of  glass. 
Debate  and  hate,  revolt,  contention,  gore  — 
The  slave  a  freeman  and  the  master  poor. 
Though  in  the  mart  his  wasted  ashes  lie, 
Here  in  Valhalla  walks  Calhoun  for  aye. 

Earnest  as  he,  but  lighted  like  a  star. 
Shines  there  the  visage  of  an  orator : 
Ithuriel's  stature  and  a  trumpet's  tone  : 
Where'er  he  walks  he  leads,  and  he  alone. 
Thi-ice  in  the  lists  he  rode  to  take  the  crown. 
Thrice  in  the  dust  his  prmcely  head  went  down. 
But  though  defeated,  all  the  world  agree 
He  had  the  plenitude  of  chivalry. 
Still  in  his  smile  this  twilight  turns  to  day, 
And  nature  brightens  at  the  name  of  Clay. 

Austere,  revered,  voluptuous,  endowed 
With  fii-e  and  darkness  like  a  thunder  cloud. 


286  POEMS 

Roves  he  whose  eyes  mth  tender  greatness  shine  ! 
Who  stood  hke  Moses  on  the  mountain  line, 
Worthy  to  take  God's  tablets  of  the  law 
And  break  them  to  a  multitude  in  awe ; 
But  not  to  pass  into  the  promised  state, 
To  die  unmurmuring,  even  at  the  gate. 
And  leave  the  name  of  Webster  to  the  land, 
One  just  too  human  to  be  wholly  grand. 

Here  stands  but  one  who  wore  the  crown  awhile 
And  lost  it  with  a  wrinkle  and  a  smile  — 
The  live  Van  Buren,  greater  in  defeat 
Than  blandly  minist'ring  in  Caesar's  seat. 
The  torch  he  wielded  better  than  the  sword ; 
In  his  revolt  reeled  down  the  feudal  lord. 
He  tarried  long  behind  his  time  and  went 
To  exile  like  a  veteran  to  his  tent. 

Yet   there   is    one    whom   death   bequeathed   the 

tlirone. 
And  sought  to  win  it,  livmg,  for  his  own : 
The  gracious  Fillmore,  fasliioned  best  for  love. 
To  play  Apollo  at  the  fall  of  Jove ; 
He  saw,  like  Seward,  an  invader  sail 
To  conquest,  though  himself  had  raised  the  gale. 
And  both  recite  in  this  enshrined  retreat 
Their  country's  glory  in  their  own  defeat. 

So  also  he  who  found  the  mountain  path  — 
Fremont  —  but  not  the  road  that  glory  hath,  — 
And  martial  Scott,  whose  many  cubits  bring 
The  office  of  the  Guardsman,  not  the  King. 
Together  these  the  limpid  ripples  glass : 


DEATH   OF   THE  SIAMESE   TWINS     287 

The  subtle  Douglas  and  the  timid  Cass ; 
The  yearning  Chase,  with  ermine  on  his  breast, 
Over  a  heart  sick  in  a  sceptre's  quest ; 
High-mettled  Breckinridge  by  exile  bowed ; 
And  young  McClellan,  Hamlet  of  the  crowd ; 
With  cautious  Seymour  in  the  whirlwind  spent, 
That  threw  a  soldier  forward  from  his  tent. 
They  speak  together,  hearty  and  unvexed, 
"  Who  spies  the  shallop  ?  Who  is  coming  next  ?  " 
1872. 


DEATH  OF  THE  SIAMESE  TWINS 

Chang  and  Eng  were  gallant  twins 

Discovered  in  Siam, 
And  Eng  grew  up  at  Sabbath  school, 

While  Chang  he  loved  a  slam  ; 
A  gristly  rivet  joined  the  twain. 

The  which  would  not  unscrew, 
So  pious  Eng  was  always  slain 

When  Chang  got  on  a  slew. 

In  politics  Eng  was  a  Wliig, 

And  Chang  a  Democrat, 
And  when  they  held  an  argument 

It  ended  in  a  spat, 
And  often  when  the  vote  was  slick, 

And  both  sides  scored  a  brother, 
'Twas  thought  throughout  the  bailiwick, 

They  must  contest  each  other. 


288  POEMS 

Poor  Eng  he  loved  a  Quaker  maid 

Who  would  not  roost  with  Changy, 
Because  he  came  to  bed  so  drunk 

And  said  his  prayers  so  slangy ; 
They  compromised,  and  took  a  pair, 

And  lived  in  great  dejection,  — 
The  brothers  wanted  a  divorce, 

The  sisters  a  dissection. 

And  Eng  he  loved  to  sing  a  hymn, 

And  Chang  to  fight  a  chicken ; 
Whenever  Eng  exhorted  Chang 

He  got  a  martyr's  lickin' ; 
If  in  the  church  Eng  led  his  class 

'Twould  make  an  angel  kick  up. 
To  see  the  one  with  unction  pray, 

And  t'other  sleep  and  hiccup. 

They  called  a  hundred  surgeons  in 

To  pass  the  righteous  sentence. 
If  'twould  be  safe  to  take  a  knife 

And  cut  their  own  acquaintance. 
The  Doctors  of  their  hyphen  felt 

And  came  to  this  solution : 
'Twas  an  action  'twixt  the  Little  Belt 

And  the  navel  Constitution. 

At  last  Chang  would  not  sleep  at  all. 

So  much  he  was  a  soaker, 
And  kept  his  brother  sitting  up 

To  while  him  at  draw  poker ; 
And  when  he  died  the  wretch  remarked : 


THE  FIBE    GUEST  289 

"  The  Lord  must  raise  our  bodies  — 
And  I  shall  have  all  Eng's  reward, 
And  likewise  all  those  toddies." 

The  ladies  sold  the  frail  remains 

To  serve  a  human  mission ; 
The  Doctors  beat  Sir  Barnum  out 

And  gave  an  exhibition  ; 
They  found  the  belt  a  derrick  was, 

Two  sacks  —  one  thin,  one  thicker  — 
And  Eng  had  had  to  brace  the  beam, 

While  Chang  contained  the  liquor. 
1874. 


THE   FIRE   GUEST 

CARRIERS'  ADDRESS,  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE,  1872 

The  fire  burns  bright  on  my  hearth  to-night ; 
Thanks  to  God  for  its  warmth  and  light ! 
"Warming  the  toes  of  our  laughing  boys, 
Radiant  over  their  Christmas  toys  ; 
Chasing  the  ghosts  around  the  ceiling, 
Filling  our  hearts  with  grateful  feehng, 
Ushering  in  the  visions  of  rest, — 
Welcome  forever,  thou  beautiful  guest ! 

See  the  fire  from  the  engine  gleaming  ! 
See  it  over  the  lighthouse  streaming  I 
Faithful  and  cheery,  see  it  shine, 
Down  in  the  tunnel  and  deep  in  the  mine ! 
Whence,  O  servant !  didst  thou  inherit 
Thy  willing  power  and  mighty  spirit  ? 


290  POEMS 

Forests  of  giant  trees,  they  say, 

"Waved  once  their  boughs  in  the  light  of  day, 

And  down  their  gorgeous  blossoms  hurled 

In  the  profligate  life  of  a  young,  new  world ; 

But  the  world  rolled  back  and  they  crackled  and 

bowed, 
Like  the  stars  of  heaven  rolled  under  a  cloud, 
And  still  in  their  crystal  caverns  deep, 
Blossom,  and  beauty,  and  strength  they  keep ; 
And  the  tints  of  the  forest  return  to  invest 
The  blooming  anew  of  our  beautiful  guest. 

Alas,  thou  truant !     Thou  canst  not  see 

The  ache  in  our  hearts  for  the  freak  of  thee, 

When  leaping  out  of  thy  cage  one  night, 

Across  the  city  thou  took'st  thy  flight, 

Knowing  no  more  of  the  havoc  and  wrack. 

Than  the  harmless  heart  of  a  maniac. 

Thou  thought'st  it  merry  to  imitate 

On  a  grander  scale,  the  glow  of  thy  grate ; 

And  the  noise  thou  mad'st  in  thy  diligence 

Drowned  the  cry  we  lifted  in  impotence : 

"  O  God !     O  Fire  !     Our  hearthstones  spare  ! 

Oh,  best  of  servants,  return,  forbear ! 

Oh,  worst  of  masters,  be  satisfied 

With  the  rent  thou  hast  made  in  the  mart  of  our 

pride  I " 
In  vain ;  we  heard  in  thy  wild  carouse 
The  buried  forest's  thunderous  boughs. 
And  the  brilliant  blossoms  that  grew  so  high. 
Again  in  their  splendor  climbed  the  sky. 
We  fled  from  the  blaze  like  the  prairie  quail, 


THE  FIRE   GUEST  291 

Or  birds  from  their  nests  at  the  scream  of  the  gale, 
And  stood  in  the  night  by  the  ruins'  gleam, 
Like  the  highway  vagrant  aroused  from  his  dream. 
Our  Altars  were  gone  and  our  walls  overthrown ; 
Our  temples  were  razed  and  our  monuments  prone ; 
Our  boast — God  forgive  us  !  thou  doest  all  best — 
Chicago  had  flown  like  its  beautiful  guest. 

O  beautiful  fire  !  returned  anew. 

To  show  us  the  faces  courageous  and  true, 

Assembled  again  around  hearthstones  low. 

But  warmed  into  hope  by  thy  innocent  glow ! 

The  paintings  were  gone  that  reflected  thy  ray ; 

The  books  that  beguiled  the  close  of  the  day ; 

The  burnished  mirror,  the  carriage  and  span. 

And  the  trophies  of  artist  and  artisan ; 

But   something   remained   from   the  embers  and 

wreck  — 
The  wife  heroic  that  clung  to  our  neck ; 
Our  sons  that  are  never  degenerate ; 
Our  purpose,  returned,  like  the  flame  in  the  grate, 
To  build  the  beautiful  city  again, 
As  a  tower  unto  fate  and  example  to  men. 
Oh !  fire  of  the  household,  what  carrier  doves 
Flew  into  our  windows  laden  with  loves, 
From  human  nature  —  from  foreign  queen  — 
From  Pharisee  and  from  Magdalene  ! 
Then,  never  till  then,  as  thou  canst  attest. 
We  wept  in  thy  presence,  our  beautiful  guest ! 

This  New  Year's  time,  O  kindly  fire  ! 
"We  gather  around  thee  closer  and  nigher. 


292  POEMS 

Be  unto  us  a  scourge  no  more, 

But  be  that  kindlier  friend  of  yore, 

Which  warmed  the  cold  limbs,  sore  and  wet, 

Of  river-seeking,  good  Marquette, 

And  made  the  prairie  like  an  inn 

To  lonely  father  Hennepin  ! 

Burn  brightly,  while  we  keep  in  peace 

Our  dream  of  empire  and  increase. 

As  when  the  white  man's  vessel  started 

Our  river's  ripples  long  ago. 

And  calmly  slept  the  lion-hearted 

La  Salle,  beside  the  camp  fire's  glow  ! 

Show  us,  O  fire !  in  thy  graceful  curling, 

The  hut  of  the  negro  pioneer. 

And  the  flag  of  Dearborn  first  unfurling 

In  the  prairie's  smoky  atmosphere  ; 

The  low  pirogues  of  the  bold  post  trader 

Set  under  the  bank  of  poplar  trees. 

And  the  prowling  form  of  the  Indian  raider, 

Gartered  with  skunk's  skin  around  the  knees  ! 

And  hide,  O  fire  I  that  scene  in  phlebotomy. 

When  the  garrison  filed  through  the  stockade  wall, 

And  Winnebago  and  Pottowattamie 

Kept  time  to  the  tune  of  the  dead  march  in  Saul ! 

Who  said  that  Chicago  was  perished,  but  blun- 
dered. 

Though  the  silence  of  nature  returned  to  the 
moor. 

The  gray  wolf  howled  where  the  cannon  had  thun- 
dered. 


THE  FIRE   GUEST  293 

And  the  wild  goose  piped  to  the  voyageur: 
To  divide  up  our  raiment  contended  all  races,  — 
The  French  of  St.  Louis,  the  folks  of  Calumet ; 
Toledo,  Milwaukee,  and  other  small  places, 
The  which  to  enumerate  is  to  forget. 
But  the  soldiers  returned  to  their  station, 
Again  the  artillery  spake, 
And  like  a  divine  exhalation, 
Chicago  arose  by  the  lake  ! 
It  was  thee,  O  thou  tyrant !  that  glowest,  — 
Unaware  of  thy  freak  or  our  ire,  — 
'Twas  by  thee  that  we  conquered,  thou  knowest,  — 
Thou  builder  and  spoiler,  the  fire  ! 
To  thy  harness  return,  we  forgive  thee  ; 
For  the  traffic  thou  gav'st,  go  in  quest ! 
And  the  city  revived  shall  enshrine  thee, 
Its  beautiful  guest  I 

Ah,  me  !     The  cold  toes  this  winter, 

And  the  candles  burnt  out  in  the  socket ; 

Let  us  give  them  that  tinder-box,  money. 

And  burn  a  warm  hole  in  their  pocket ! 

There's  a  carrier  s  foot  I     Who  would  shun  him? 

Perhaps  his  extremities  ache  ; 

Let  us  heap  coals  of  fire  upon  him. 

And  burn  him  alive  at  our  stake  I 

Then,  to-night,  be  he  son  or  be  sire, 

As  he  counts  o'er  his  coins  of  bequest. 

He  will  smile  at  that  terrible  fire. 

And  call  it  his  beautiful  guest  ! 


294  POEMS 


SPINOZA 


Sweet  type  of  Jew !  except  that  thou 
Earned  with  thy  hands  thy  frugal  food, 
And  led  not  crowds  but  solitude, 
I  almost  seem  to  feel  thee,  now, 
The  highest  proof  of  Holyrood ! 
Polishing  lenses  for  the  light 
That  is  the  Revelation  pure, 
Thy  convex  mind  infinite  sight 
Glassed  of  the  wide  Infinitude 
And  graved  peUucid  Literature : 
Nature  and  Mind  one  substance  were, 
The  bread  and  wine  religions  take ; 
God-will  aboundeth  everywhere 
And  cannot  anything  forsake. 


EVENTS   AND   CREED 

(RANKE'S   HISTORY  OF  THE  POPES) 

Events  rule  all :  irruptive  Rome  made  Christ : 
Irruptive  Greece  Italian  knowledge  woke. 
The  Christian  fantasy,  by  facts  advised,  — 
When  classic  Art  pontificates  enticed,  — 
Erudite  monks  the  see  of  Caesars  broke : 
Wickliife  and  Huss,  Luther  and  Bruno  spoke 
While  modelled  Angelo  and  Raphael ; 
The  voice  of  Letters  dealt  the  void  a  stroke 
As  finds  its  tongue  the  dumb,  sepulchral  bell. 
So  cannot  rest  the  aye  resurgent  mind ; 
Wave  upon  wave  resultant  movements  thresh 


V 


IJ^  RAMA  295 


The  rock  of  Peter  or  the  caves  of  hell, 
And  every  human  billow  that  does  grind 
The  dikes  of  credence,  keeps  the  ocean  fresh. 


IN   RAMA 

A  LITTLE  face  there  was, 

When  all  her  pains  were  done. 
Beside  that  face  I  loved : 

The}^  said  it  was  a  son. 
A  son  to  me  —  how  strange  — 

Who  never  was  a  man, 
But  lived  from  change  to  change 

A  boy,  as  I  began  ! 

More  bo}nsh  still  the  hope 

That  leaped  within  me,  then : 
That  I,  matured  in  him. 

Should  found  a  house  of  men, 
And  all  my  wasted  sheaves. 

Bound  up  in  his  ripe  shock, 
Give  seed  to  sterner  times 

And  name  to  sterner  stock. 

He  grew  to  that  ideal, 

And  blossomed  in  my  sight. 
Strange  questions  filled  his  day. 

Sweet  visions  in  the  night ; 
Till  he  could  walk  with  me. 

Companion,  hand  in  hand. 
But  nothing  seemed  to  be 

Like  him,  in  wonder-land. 


296  POEMS 

For  he  was  leading  me 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  mind, 
Far  down  eternity, 

And  I  so  far  behind. 
One  day  an  angel  stepped 

Out  of  the  idle  sphere ; 
The  man  had  entered  in. 

The  boy  is  weeping  here. 

My  house  is  founded  there. 

In  heaven,  that  he  has  won. 
Shall  I  be  outlawed,  then, 

O,  Lord !  who  hast  my  son  ? 
This  grief  that  makes  me  old. 

Those  tears  that  make  me  pure, 
They  tell  me  time  is  time. 

And  only  heaven  mature. 
1874 

RACHEL 

(DELAWARE  GUNNER'S  WHISTLE) 

Down  in  the  marshes  of  the  Christeen  creek 
Lives  a  little  reed-bird  on  which  I  sneak, 
She  is  so  fat  that  she  looks  right  short 
But  when  she  flies  she  is  real  good  sport. 

Rachel !  Rachel !  why  don't  you  run  ? 

Don't  you  know,  Rachel,  I  carry  a  gun  ? 

Rachel !  Rachel !  I  love  you  the  most. 

If  I  could  get  you  how  you  would  toast ! 

She  has  a  nest  on  the  Christeen  creek ; 
Come  to  it  softly  and  don't  you  speak ! 


RACHEL  297 

Down  in  the  reeds  on  the  flood-tide  bog 
I  have  a  skiff  and  a  pointer  dog. 

Rachel !  Rachel  I  why  don't  you  fly  ? 

When  he  sees  Rachel  the  dog  points  shy. 

Rachel !  Rachel  I  I  tremble  too, 

Loading  my  heart  in  my  gun  for  you ! 

Soft  are  the  stars  in  the  Christeen  creek 
When  in  the  evening  my  bird  I  seek, 
Plump  is  her  breast  in  her  yellow  gown 
Soft  is  her  plumage  as  reed-bird  down. 

Rachel !  Rachel !  why  don't  you  tweet  ? 

WTien  you  know,  Rachel,  I  could  you  eat  ? 

Rachel !  Rachel !  for  you  I  gun, 

I  have  my  bag  full  when  you  are  won ! 

Like  thorn  hedges  by  the  Christeen  creek 
Tinted  with  red  is  my  reed-bird's  cheek. 
Trim  as  the  hedge  tops  her  father  clips 
Are  the  soft  lines  to  my  sweet  bird's  lips. 

Rachel !  Rachel !  why  don't  you  come  ? 

Let  me  take  Rachel  to  my  own  home ! 

Rachel !  Rachel !  thou  fat  mai-sh  chick. 

How  for  my  supper  thy  plushing  would  pick ! 

Fall  comes  fast  on  the  Christeen  creek ; 
Soon  I  must  migrate  unless  thou  speak  : 
Dear  little  Quaker  of  frost  bethink ! 
I  will  be  gone  with  the  Bob-o-link. 

Rachel !  Rachel !  why  don't  you  wed  ? 

Winter,  my  Rachel !  in  my  marsh  bed  ! 

Rachel !  Rachel !  the  wind  blows  bleak. 

Fly  to  my  boat  on  the  Christeen  creek  I 


298  POEMS 


ANGELS   IN   MASK 

As  from  the  throng  of  moving  masks 

I  drew  a  space  apart, 
Well  known  to  some  unknown  to  me, 

By  my  imperfect  Art, 
One,  in  the  habit  of  a  nun. 

Stopped  short,  as  in  surprise. 
And  through  her  domino  I  saw 

Two  soft,  regarding  eyes. 

Long  looked  we  both,  for  half  I  felt 

Her  gaze  no  mischief  spoke. 
And  knew  it,  when  a' woman's  hand 

Reached  to  me  from  the  cloak ; 
A  voice  I  never  heard  before, 

But  most  sincere  and  sweet, 
Said,  "  Ah !  my  love,  do  we  once  more 

Touch  hand  to  hand  and  meet  ?  " 

"  Fair  domino,"  I  said,  "  indeed, 

Unmask  before  you  go. 
And  tell  your  trouble  in  my  ear, 

Why  do  you  tremble  so  ?  " 
"  I  tremble  for  the  virgin  years 

When  o'er  my  mind  supreme, 
You  were  the  hero  of  my  fears, 

The  gallant  of  my  dream." 

"  And  did  I  never  know  your  will. 
When  then,  perchance,  my  heart 

Like  yours,  was  longing  for  a  shrine, 
A  mistress,  or  an  art?  " 


£^ 


Arch  oi'  the  \Vau  ( ouhesi'undents,  Gapland,  Mu. 


EIBE   FEOM  FIVE   FOEKS  299 

"  No,  mine  was  all  the  pleasant  pain, 

And  heaven  permits  it  here. 
To  say  that  still,  as  when  a  child, 

I  follow  3-our  career. 

«  My  husband  passes  —  Nay  !  you  must ! 

No  guilty  secret  mine." 
A  strong  man's  hand  came  frankly  forth, 

I  saw  his  dark  eyes  shine ; 
"  In  honor's  way  God  keep  you  long !  " 

These  manly  sounds  I  heard, 
"  And  never  may  you  cease  to  be 

Our  favorite  household  word." 

They  vanished  in  the  moving  crowd 

And  left  me  wondering  quite, 
Until  I  heard  my  comrade  say : 

"  Whom  have  you  seen  to-night?  " 
"  To  guess,"  I  said,  "  were  fruitless  task. 

When  all  this  maze  I  see  ; 
But,  if  they  ever  come  in  mask. 

Two  angels  spoke  to  me." 


RIDE   FROM   FR^E   FORKS 

APRIL  1,  1865 

Ho  !  pony.     Down  the  lonely  road 
Strike  now  your  cheeriest  pace  ! 

The  woods  on  fire  do  not  burn  higher 
Than  burns  my  anxious  face  ; 

Far  have  you  sped,  but  all  this  night 


300  POEMS 

Must  feel  my  nervous  spur ; 
If  we  be  late,  the  world  must  wait 

The  tidings  we  aver :  — 
To  home  and  hamlet,  town  and  hearth, 

To  thrill  child,  mother,  man, 
I  carry  to  the  waiting  North 

Great  news  from  Sheridan  ! 

The  birds  are  dead  among  the  pines. 

Slain  by  the  battle  fright. 
Prone  in  the  road  the  steed  reclines 

That  never  reached  the  fight : 
Yet  on  we  go,  —  the  wreck  below 

Of  many  a  tumbled  wain,  — 
By  ghastly  pools  where  stranded  mules 

Die,  di'inking  of  the  rain. 
With  but  my  list  of  killed  and  missed, 

I  spur  my  stumbling  nag. 
To  tell  of  death  at  many  a  tryst, 

But  victory  to  the  flag ! 

"  Halt!  who  comes  there  ?  The  countersign !  "  — 

"  A  friend."  —  "  Advance !  The  fight,  — 
How  goes  it,  say  ?  "  —  "  We  won  the  day !  "  — 

"  Huzza !  Pass  on  !  "  —  "  Good-nig-ht !  "  — 
And  parts  the  darkness  on  before. 

And  down  the  mire  we  tramp, 
And  the  black  sky  is  painted  o'er 

With  many  a  pulsing  camp  ; 
O'er  stumps  and  ruts,  by  ruined  huts. 

Where  ghosts  look  through  the  gloam,  — 
Behind  my  tread  I  hear  the  dead 

Follow  the  news  tow'rd  home  ! 


HIDE  FBOM  FIVE  FOBKS  301 

The  hunted  souls  I  see  behind, 

In  swamp  and  in  ravine, 
Whose  cry  of  mercy  thrills  the  wind 

Till  cracks  the  sure  carbine  ; 
The  moving  lights  which  scare  the  dark, 

And  show  the  trampled  place 
Where,  in  his  blood,  some  mother's  bud 

Turns  up  his  young,  dead  face ; 
The  captives  spent,  whose  standards  rent 

The  conqueror  parades. 
As  at  the  Five  Forks  roads  arrive 

The  General's  dashing  Aides. 

0  woncbous  Youth !  through  this  grand  ruth 
Runs  my  boy's  life  its  thread ; 

The  General's  fame,  the  battle's  name, 
The  rolls  of  maimed  and  dead 

1  bear,  with  my  thrilled  soul  astir. 

And  lonely  thoughts  and  fears. 
And  am  but  History's  courier 

To  bind  the  conquering  years ; 
A  battle-ray,  through  ages  gray 

To  light  to  deeds  sublime, 
And  flash  the  lustre  of  this  day 

Down  all  the  aisles  of  Time ! 

Ho !  pony,  —  'tis  the  signal  gun  — 

The  nightrassault  decreed ; 
On  Petersburg  the  thunderbolts 

Crash  from  the  lines  of  Meade ; 
Fade  the  pale,  frightened  stars  o'erhead. 

And  shrieks  the  bursting  air ; 


302  POEMS 

The  forest  foliage,  tinted  red, 

Grows  ghastlier  in  the  glare  ; 
Though  m  Her  towers,  reached  Her  last  hours, 

Rocks  proud  Rebellion's  crest  — 
The  world  may  sag,  if  but  my  nag 

Get  in  before  the  rest ! 

With  bloody  flank,  and  fetlocks  dank. 

And  goad,  and  lash,  and  shout  — 
Great  God !  as  every  hoof-beat  falls 

A  hundred  lives  beat  out ! 
As  weary  as  this  broken  steed 

Reels  down  the  corduroys, 
So,  weary,  fight  for  morning  light 

Our  hot  and  grimy  boys  ; 
Through  ditches  wet,  o'er  parapet 

And  guns  barbette,  they  catch 
The  last,  lost  breach ;  and  I,  —  I  reach 

The  mail  with  my  despatch ! 

Sure  it  shall  speed,  the  land  to  read, 

As  sped  the  happiest  shell ! 
The  shot  I  send  strike  the  world's  end ; 

This  tells  my  pony's  knell ; 
His  long  race  run,  the  long  war  done, 

My  occupation  gone,  — 
Above  his  bier,  prone  on  the  pier. 

The  vultures  fleck  the  dawn. 
Still,  rest  his  bones  where  soldiers  dwell. 

Till  the  Long  Roll  they  catch. 
He  fell  the  day  that  Richmond  fell. 

And  took  the  first  despatch  ! 


LAND    OF  P0C03f0KE  303 

LAND   OF   POCOMOKE 

(EASTERN  SHORE  OF  MARYLAND) 

One  day,  worn  out  with  head  and  pen, 
And  the  debate  of  public  men, 

I  said  aloud,  "  O  !  if  there  were 
Some  place  to  make  me  young  awhile, 

I  would  go  there,  I  would  go  there, 
And  if  it  were  a  many  a  mile !  " 

Then  something  cried  —  perhaps  my  map. 
That  not  in  vain  I  oft  invoke  — 

"  Go  seek  again  your  mothers  lap. 

The  dear  old  soil  that  gave  you  sap. 
And  see  the  land  of  Pocomoke  I  " 

A  sense  of  shame  that  never  yet 
My  foot  on  that  old  shore  was  set, 

Thougli  prodigal  in  wandering. 
Arose  ;  and  with  a  tingled  cheek. 

Like  some  late  wild  duck  on  the  wing, 
I  started  down  the  Chesapeake. 

The  morning  sunlight,  silvery  calm. 
From  basking  shores  of  woodland  broke. 

And  capes  and  inlets  breathing  balm, 

And  lovel}'-  islands  clothed  in  palm. 
Closed  round  the  sound  of  Pocomoke. 

The  pungy  boats  at  anchor  swing. 
The  long  canoes  were  oystering. 

And  moving  barges  played  the  seine 
Along  the  beaches  of  Tangiers  ; 

I  heard  the  British  di-ums  again 


304  POEMS 

As  in  their  predatory  years, 

When  Kedge's  Straits  the  Tories  swept, 

And  Ross's  camp-fires  hid  in  smoke. 
They  plundered  all  the  coasts  except 
The  camp  the  Island  Parson  kept 

For  praying  men  of  Pocomoke. 

And  when  we  thread  in  quaint  intrigue 
Onancock  Creek  and  Pungoteague, 

The  world  and  wars  behind  us  stop. 
On  God's  frontiers  we  seem  to  be 

As  at  Rehoboth  wharf  we  drop, 
And  see  the  Kirk  of  Mackemie : 

The  first  he  was  to  teach  the  creed 
The  rugged  Scotch  will  ne'er  revoke ; 

His  slaves  he  made  to  work  and  read, 

Nor  powers  Episcopal  to  heed. 
That  held  the  glebes  on  Pocomoke. 

But  quiet  nooks  like  these  unman 
The  grim  predestinarian, 

Whose  soul  expands  to  mountain  views ; 
And  Wesley's  tenets,  like  a  tide. 

These  level  shores  with  love  suffuse, 
Where'er  his  patient  preachers  ride. 

The  landscape  quivered  with  the  swells 
And  felt  the  steamer's  paddle  stroke, 

That  tossed  the  hollow  gum-tree  shells, 

As  if  some  puffing  craft  of  hell's 
The  fisher  chased  in  Pocomoke. 

Anon  the  river  spreads  to  coves, 
And  in  the  tides  grow  giant  groves. 


LAND    OF  POCOMOKE  305 

The  water  shines  like  ebony, 
And  odoi-s  resinous  ascend 

From  many  an  old  balsamic  tree, 
Whose  roots  the  terrapin  befriend ; 

The  great  ball  cypress,  fringed  with  beard, 
Presides  above  the  water  oak, 

As  doth  its  shingles,  well  revered, 

O'er  many  a  happy  home  endeared 
To  thousands  far  from  Pocomoke. 

And  solemn  hemlocks  drink  the  dew, 
Like  that  old  Socrates  they  slew ; 

The  piny  forests  moan  and  moan, 
And  in  the  marshy  splutter  docks, 

As  if  they  grazed  on  sky  alone, 
Rove  airily  the  herds  of  ox. 

Then,  like  a  narrow  strait  of  light. 
The  banks  draw  close,  the  long  trees  yoke, 

And  strong  old  manses  on  the  height 

Stand  overhead,  as  to  invite 
To  good  old  cheer  on  Pocomoke. 

And  cunning  baskets  midstream  lie 
To  trap  the  perch  that  gambol  by  ; 

In  coves  of  creek  the  saw-mills  sing, 
And  trim  the  spar  and  hew  the  mast ; 

And  the  gaunt  loons  dart  on  the  wing, 
To  see  the  steamer  looming  past. 

Now  timber  shores  and  massive  piles 
Repel  our  hull  with  friendly  stroke. 

And  guide  us  up  the  long  defiles, 

Till,  after  many  fairy  miles 
We  reach  the  head  of  Pocomoke. 


306  POEMS 

Is  it  Snow  Hill  that  greets  me  back 
To  this  old  loamy  cul-de-sac  ?  — 

Spread  on  the  level  river  shore, 
Beneath  the  bending  willow-trees 

And  speckled  trunks  of  sycamore, 
All  moist  with  airs  of  rival  seas  ? 

Are  these  old  men  who  gravely  bow, 
As  if  a  stranger  all  awoke, 

The  same  who  heard  my  parents  vow, 

—  Ah  well !  in  simpler  days  than  now 
To  love  and  serve  by  Pocomoke  ? 

Does  Chincoteague,  as  then,  produce 
These  rugged  ponies,  lean  and  spruce  ? 

Are  these  the  steers  of  Accomack 
That  do  the  negro's  drone  obey? 

The  things  of  childhood  all  come  back ; 
The  wonder  tales  of  mother  day ! 

The  jail,  the  inn,  the  ivy  vines 
That  yon  old  English  churchside  cloak, 

Wherein  we  read  the  stately  lines 

Of  Addison,  writ  in  his  signs. 
Above  the  dead  of  Pocomoke. 

The  world  in  this  old  nook  may  peep, 
And  think  it  listless  and  asleep  ; 

But  I  have  seen  the  world  enough 
To  think  its  grandeur  something  dull ; 

And  here  were  men  of  sterling  stuff. 
In  their  own  era  wonderful : 

Young  Luther  Martin's  wayward  race, 
And  William  Winder's  core  of  oak. 


OLD   ST.   MARY'S  30T 

The  lion  heart  of  Samuel  Chase, 
And  great  Decatur's  royal  face, 
And  Henry  "Wise  of  Pocomoke. 

When  we  have  raged  our  little  part, 
And  weary  out  of  strife  and  art, 

Oh !  could  we  bring  to  these  still  shores 
The  peace  they  have  who  harbor  here. 

And  rest  upon  our  echoing  oars, 
And  float  adowTi  this  tranquil  sphere  ! 

Then,  might  yon  stars  shine  down  on  me. 
With  all  the  hope  those  lovers  spoke, 

Who  walked  these  tranquil  streets  I  see, 

And  thought  God's  love  nowhere  so  free. 
Nor  life  so  good,  as  Pocomoke. 


OLD    ST.    MARY'S 

(CAPITAL  OF   COLONIAL   MARYLAND) 

This  is  the  river.     Like  Southampton  water 

It  enters  broadly  in  the  woody  lands. 

As  if  to  break  a  continent  asunder. 

And  sudden  ceasing,  lo  !  the  city  stands  : 

St.  Mary's  —  stretching  forth  its  yellow  hands 

Of  beach,  beneath  the  bluff  where  it  commands 

In  vision  only ;  for  the  fields  are  green 

Above  the  pilgrims.     Pleasant  is  the  place ; 

No  ruin  mars  its  immemorial  face. 

As  young  as  in  virginity  renewed. 

Its  widow's  sorrows  gone  without  a  trace. 

And  tempting  man  to  woo  its  solitude. 


308  POEMS 

The  river  loves  it,  and  embraces  still 
Its  comely  form  with  two  small  arms  of  bay, 
Whereon,  of  old,  the  Calverts'  pinnace  lay. 
The  Dove  —  dear  bird !  —  the  olive  in  its  bill. 
That  to  the  Ark  returned  from  every  gale 
And  found  a  haven  by  this  sheltering  hill. 

Lo  !  all  composed,  the  soft  horizons  lie 

Afloat  upon  the  blueness  of  the  coves. 

And  sometimes  in  the  mirage  does  the  sky 

Seem  to  continue  the  dependent  groves. 

And  draw  in  the  canoe  that  careless  roves 

Among  the  stars  repeated  round  the  bow. 

Far  off  the  larger  sails  go  down  the  world, 

For  nothing  worldly  sees  St.  Mary's  now ; 

The  ancient  windmills  all  their  sails  have  furled, 

The  standards  of  the  Lords  of  Baltimore, 

And  they,  the  Lords,  have  passed  to  their  reposej 

And  nothing  sounds  upon  the  pebbly  shore 

Except  thy  hidden  bell.  Saint  Inigo's  ! 

There,  in  a  wood,  the  Jesuits'  chapel  stands 
Amongst  the  gravestones,  in  secluded  calm. 
But,  Sabbath  days,  the  censer's  healing  balm. 
The  Crucified  with  His  extended  hands. 
And  music  of  the  masses,  draw  the  fold 
Back  to  His  worship  as  in  days  of  old. 

Upon  a  cape  the  priest's  house  northward  blinks, 
To  see  St.  Mary's  Seminary  guard 
The  dead  that  sleep  within  the  parish  yard. 
In  English  faith  —  the  parish  church  that  links 
The  present  with  the  perish'd,  for  its  walls 


HEBMAN   OF  BOHEMIA   MANOB      309 

Are  of  the  clay  that  was  the  capital's, 
When  halberdiers  and  musketeers  kept  ward, 
And  armor  sounded  in  the  oaken  halLs. 

A  fruity  smell  is  in  the  school-house  lane, 
The  clover  bees  are  sick  with  evening  heats, 
A  few  old  houses  from  the  window  pane 
Fling  back  the  flame  of  sunset,  and  there  beats 
The  throb  of  oars  from  basking  oyster  fleets, 
And  clangorous  music  of  the  oyster  tongs, 
Plunged  down  in  deep  bivalvnlous  retreats. 
And  sound  of  seine  drawn  home  with  negro  songs. 

Night  falls  as  heavily  in  such  a  clime 
As  tired  childhood  after  all  day's  play. 
Waiting  for  mother  who  has  passed  away. 
And  some  old  nurse,  with  iterated  rhyme 
Of  hymns  or  topics  of  the  olden  time, 
Lulls  wonder  with  her  tenderness  to  rest : 
So,  old  St.  Marj^'s !  at  the  close  of  day. 
Sing  thou  to  me,  a  truant,  on  thy  breast ! 


HERMAN    OF   BOHEMIA   MANOR 
I.  —  THE   MANOR 

"  Mr  corn  is  gathered  in  the  bins," 
The  Lord  Augustin  Herman  said ; 

"  My  wild  swine  romp  in  chincapins ; 

Dried  are  the  deer  and  beaver  skins ; 
And  on  Elk  Mountain's  languid  head 
The  autumn  woods  are  red. 


310  POEMS 

"  So  in  my  heart  an  autumn  falLs ; 

I  stand  a  lonely  tree  unleaved ; 
And  to  my  hermit  manor  walls 
The  wild-goose  from  the  water  calls, 

As  if  to  mock  a  man  bereaved : 

My  years  are  nearly  sheaved. 

"  Go  saddle  me  the  Flemish  steed 
My  brother  Verlett  gave  to  me, 
What  time  his  sister  did  concede 
Her  dainty  hand  to  hear  me  plead ! 

Poor  soul !  she's  mouldering  by  the  sea 
And  I  with  misery." 

The  slave  man  brought  the  wild-maned  horse- 
All  wilder  that  with  stags  he  grazed  — 

Bred  from  the  seed  the  knightly  Norse 

Rode  from  Araby.     Like  remorse 

The  eyes  in  his  gray  forehead  blazed. 
As  on  his  lord  he  gazed. 

"  Now  guard  ye  well  my  lands  and  stock ; 

Slack  not  the  seine,  ply  well  the  axe ! 
The  eagle  circles  o'er  the  flock ; 
The  Indian  at  my  gates  may  knock ; 

The  firelock  prime  for  his  attacks ! 

I  ride  the  sunrise  tracks." 

Swift  as  a  wizard  on  a  broom, 
The  strong  gray  horse  and  rider  ran, 

Adown  the  forest  stripped  of  bloom. 

By  stump  and  bough  that  scarce  gave  room 
To  pass  the  woodman's  caravan. 
Rode  the  Bohemian. 


HERMAN  OF  BOHEMIA  MANOR        311 

"Lord  Herman,  stay,"  the  brewer  cried, 

"  And  Huddy's  friendly  flagon  clink  !  " 
And  martial  Hinoy6ssa  spied 
The  horseman,  moving  with  the  tide 
That  ebbed  from  Appoquinimink, 
Nor  stopped  to  rest  or  drink. 

"  Where  rides  old  Herman  ?  "  Beekman  mused ; 
"  That  railing  wife  has  turned  his  head." 

"  He  keeps  the  saddle  as  he  used, 

In  younger  days,  when  he  infused 

Three  provinces,"  Pierre  Alricks  said, 
"  And  mapped  their  landscapes  spread." 

Broad  rose  Zuydt  River  as  the  sail 

Above  his  periauger  flew  ; 
Loud  neighed  the  steed  to  snuff  the  gale ; 
But  Herman  saw  not,  swift  and  pale. 

Two  carrier  pigeons,  winging  true 

Northeast,  across  the  blue. 

They  quit  the  cage  of  Stuyvesant's  spy, 
And  lurking  Willems'  message  bore: 

("  This  morn  rode  Herman  rapid  by, 

Tow'rd  Amsterdam,  to  satisfy 
Yet  wider  titles  than  he  tore 
From  shallow  Baltimore  !  ") 

n.  —  REPLEVIN 

The  second  sunset  at  his  back 

From  Navesink  Highlands  threw  the  shade 
Of  horse  and  Herman,  long  and  black. 


312  POEMS 

Across  the  golden  ripples'  track, 

Where  with  the  Kills  the  ocean  played 
A  measured  serenade ; 

There,  where  to  sea  a  river  ran. 

Between  tall  hills  of  brown  and  sand, 

A  mountain  island  rose  to  span 

The  outlet  of  the  Raritan, 

And  made  a  world  on  either  hand 
Soft  as  a  poet  planned : 

Fair  marshes  pierced  with  brimming  creeks, 
Where  wild-fowl  dived  to  oyster  caves ; 

And  shores  that  swung  to  wooded  peaks, 

Where  many  a  falling  water  seeks 

The  cascade's  plunge  to  reach  the  waves, 
And  greenest  farmland  laves ; 

Deep  tide  to  every  roadstead  sb'ps, 
And  many  capes  confuse  the  shore, 

Yet  none  do  with  their  forms  eclipse 

Yon  ocean,  made  for  royal  ships, 
Whose  swells  on  silver  beaches  roar 
And  rock  forevermore. 

Old  Herman  gazed  through  lengthening  shades 
Far  up  the  inland,  where  the  spires, 

Defined  on  rocky  palisades. 

Flung  sunset  from  their  burnished  blades, 
And  with  their  bells  in  evening  choirs 
Breathed  homesick  men's  desires  : 

"  New  Amsterdam !  'tis  thine  or  mine  — 
The  foreground  of  this  stately  plan ! 


HE B MAN  OF  BOHEMIA   MANOR        313 

To  me  the  Indian  did  assign  — 
Totem  on  totem,  line  on  line  — 

Both  Staten  and  the  groves  that  ran 

Far  up  the  Raritan. 

"  B}^  spiteful  Stuyvesant  long  restrained, 
Now,  wliile  the  English  break  his  power, 

Be  Aehter  Kill  again  regained 

And  Herman's  title  entertained !  — 
Here  float  my  banner  from  my  tower  ! 
Here  is  my  right,  my  hour !  " 

ni. THE    SQUATTERS 

He  scarce  had  finished,  when  a  rush, 

Like  partridge  through  the  stubble,  broke. 

And  armed  men  trod  down  the  brush ; 

A  harsh  voice,  trembling  in  the  hush, 
As  it  must  either  stab  or  choke. 
Imperiously  spoke : 

"  Ye  conquered  men  of  Aehter  Kill, 
Whose  farms  by  loyal  toil  ye  got. 

True  Dutchmen  !  give  this  traitor  will  — 

And  he  is  yours  to  loose  or  kill  — 
All  that  ye  have  he  will  allot 
Anew  —  field,  cradle,  cot. 

"  Years  past,  beyond  our  Southern  bounds. 

On  States'  commission  sent  by  me. 
He  mapped  the  English  papists'  grounds, 
And  like  a  Judas,  o'er  our  wounds. 
Our  raiment  parted  openly : 
This  is  the  man  ye  see ! 


314  POEMS 

"  Yet,  followed  by  my  sleepless  age, 

Fast  as  he  rode  my  pigeons  sped  — 
Straight  as  the  ravens  from  their  cage, 
Straight  as  the  arrows  of  my  rage, 
Straight  as  the  meteor  overhead 
That  strikes  a  traitor  dead." 

They  bound  Lord  Herman  fast  as  hate, 

And  bore  him  o'er  to  Staten  Isle ; 
Behind  him  closed  the  postern  gate. 
And  round  him  pitiless  as  fate. 

Closed  moat  and  palisade  and  pile : 
"  Thou  diest  at  morn,"  they  smile. 

IV.  —  STUYVESANT 

Morn  broke  on  lofty  Staten's  height. 
O'er  low  Amboy  and  Arthur  Kill ; 
And  ocean  dallying  with  the  light, 
Between  the  beaches  leprous  white, 
And  silent  hook  and  headland  hill, 
And  Stuy vesant  had  his  will ; 

One-legged  he  stood,  his  sharp  mustache 

Stiff  as  the  sword  he  slashed  in  ire ; 
His  bald  crown,  like  a  calabash. 
Fringed  round  with  ringlets  white  as  ash. 
And  features  scorched  with  inner  fire ; 
Age  wore  liim  like  a  briar. 

•'Bring  the  Bohemian  forth!  "  he  cried; 
"  Old  man,  thy  moments  are  but  few." 
"  So  much  the  better,  Dutchman !  bide 


HEBMAN   OF  BOHEMIA   MANOR        315 

Thy  little  time  of  aged  pride, 
Thy  poor  revenges  to  pursue  !  — 
Thy  date  is  hastening,  too. 

"  No  crime  is  mine,  save  that  I  sought 

A  refuge  past  thy  jealous  ken, 
And  peaceful  arts  to  strangers  taught. 
And  mine  own  title  hither  brought, 

Before  the  laws  of  Englishmen, 

A  banished  denizen. 

"  Yet  that  thy  churlish  soul  may  plead 

A  favor  to  a  dying  foe, 
I'll  ask  thee,  Stuyvesant,  ere  I  bleed, 
Let  me  once  more  on  my  gray  steed 

Thrice  round  the  timbered  enceinte  go : 

Fire,  when  I  tell  thee  so ! " 

"  What  freak  is  this  ?  "  quoth  Stuyvesant  grim. 

Quoth  Herman,  "  'Twas  a  charger  brave  — 
Like  my  first  bride  in  eye  and  hmb  — 
A  wedding-gift ;  indulge  the  whim ! 

And  from  his  back  to  plunge,  I  crave, 

A  bridegroom,  in  her  grave." 

Then,  muttered  the  uneasy  guard : 
"  We  rob  an  old  man  of  his  lands. 

And  slay  him.     Sure  his  fate  is  hard, 

His  dying  plea  to  disregard  !  " 

"  Ride  then  to  death  !  "  Stuyvesant  commands; 
"  Unbind  his  horse,  his  hands  !  " 


316  POEMS 


V. THE   LEAP 


The  old  steed  darted  in  the  fort, 

And  neighed  and  shook  his  long  gray  mane ; 
Then,  seeing  soldiery,  his  port 
Grew  savage.     With  a  charger's  snort, 

Upright  he  reared,  as  young  again 

And  scenting  a  campaign. 

Hard  on  his  nostrils  Herman  laid 

An  iron  hand  and  drew  him  down, 
Then,  mounting  in  the  esplanade, 
The  rude  Dutch  rustics  stared  afraid: 
"  By  Santa  Claus  !  he  needs  no  crown. 
To  look  more  proud  renown  !  " 

Lame  Stuyvesant,  also,  envious  saw 

How  straight  he  sat  in  courteous  power, 

Like  boldness  sanctified  by  law, 

And  age  gave  magisterial  awe  ; 

Though  in  liis  last  and  bitter  hour, 
Of  knightliness  the  flower. 

His  gray  hairs  o'er  his  cassock  blew, 

And  in  his  peak'd  hat  waved  a  plume ; 
A  horn  swung  loose  and  shining  tlirough 
High  boots  of  buckskin,  as  he  drew 
The  rein,  a  jewel  burst  to  bloom: 
The  signet  ring  of  doom. 

"  Thrice  round  the  fort !  Then  as  I  raise 
This  hand,  aim  all  and  murder  well!" 
His  head  bends  low ;  the  steed's  eyes  blaze. 


HERMAN   OF  BOHEMIA   MAN  OB      317 

But  not  less  bright  do  Herman's  gaze, 
As  circling  round  the  citadel, 
He  peers  for  hope  in  hell. 

Fast  were  the  gates ;  no  crevice  showed. 

The  ramparts,  spiked  with  palisades, 
Grew  higher  as  once  round  he  rode  ; 
The  arquebusiers  prime  the  load 

And  drop  to  aim  from  ambuscades; 

No  latch,  no  loophole  aids. 

But  one  small  hut  its  chimney  thrust 
Between  the  timbers,  close  as  they ; 

Twice  round  and  with  a  desperate  trust 

Lord  Herman  muttered :  "  Die  I  must : 

There,  CHARGE !  "  and  spurred  through  beam 
and  clay  — 

"  By  heaven  !  he  is  away !  " 

VI.  —  THE  KILLS 

In  clouds  of  dust  the  muskets  fire. 

And  volleying  oaths  old  Stuyvesant  from : 
"  Turn  out !  In  yonder  Kills  he'll  mire 
Or  drown,  unless  the  fiends  conspu-e. 
"Mount!  Follow!  Still  he  must  succumb  — 
That  tide  was  never  swum." 

Through  hut  and  chimney,  down  the  ditch 

And  up  the  bank,  plunge  horse  and  man ; 
And  down  the  hills  of  bramble  pitch, 
Oft  stumbling,  those  old  gray  knees  which, 
Hunting  the  raccoon,  led  the  van ; 
Now,  limp  yet  game  he  ran. 


318  POEMS 

But  cool  and  supple,  Herman  sat, 

His  mind  at  work,  his  frame  the  horse's, 
And  knew  with  each  pulsation,  that 
Past  foe  and  fen,  past  crag,  and  flat, 
And  marsh,  the  steed  he  nearer  forces 
To  the  broad  sea's  recourses. 

"  Old  friend,"  he  thought,  "  thou  art  too  weak 
To  try  the  Kills  and  drown,  or  falter, 
The  whUe  from  shore  their  marksmen  seek 
My  heart.     (Once  o'er  the  Chesapeake 
I  paddled  oarless.)     Lest  the  halter 
Be  mine,  I  must  not  palter  — 

"  Thou  diest,  though  my  marriage-gift : 
I  still  can  swim.     Poor  Joost,  adieu !  " 

Ere  ceased  the  heartfelt  sigh  he  lift, 

The  prospect  widened ;  all  adrift, 
The  salty  sluice  burst  into  view. 
Where  grappling  tides  fought  through 

And  sucked  to  doom  the  venturous  bear. 
And  from  his  ferry  swept  the  rower  — 

How  wide,  how  terrible,  how  fair ! 

Yet  how  inspiriting  the  air  — 

How  tempts  the  long  salt  grass  the  mower ! 
How  treacherous  the  shore  ! 

Far  up  the  right  spread  Newark  Bay, 
To  lone  Secaucus  wooded  rock ; 

Nor  could  the  Kill  von  Kull  convey 

Passaic's  mountain  flood  away : 
In  Arthur  Kill  the  surges  choke. 
The  wild  tides  interlock. 


HER3IAN  OF  BOHEMIA   31  AN  OR      319 

O'er  Arthur  Kill  the  Holland  farms 

Their  gambril  roofs,  red  painted,  show ; 

Beyond,  the  newer  Yankee  swarms  — 

His  cider-presses  spread  their  arms. 
Before,  the  squatter ;  back,  the  foe  : 
And  the  dark  watei^s  flow. 

As  that  salt  air  the  stallion  felt. 

He  whimpers  gayly,  as  if  still  is 
Upon  his  sight  his  native  Scheldt, 
Or  Skagger  Rack,  or  Little  Belt,  — 
Their  wa\ing  grass  and  silver  lilies, 
Where  browsed  the  amorous  fillies. 

And  o'er  the  tide  some  lady  nags 

Blew  back  his  challenge.  Scarce  could  Herman 
Hold  in  his  seat.     "  By  John  of  Prague's 
True  faith  I  "  he  thought,  *'  thy  spirit  lags 

Not,  Joost!  Thy  course  thyself  determine  I" 

And  plunges  like  a  merman. 

Leander's  spirit  in  the  steed 

Inspired  his  stroke,  not  Herman's  fear ; 
And  fast  the  island  shores  recede. 
Fast  rise  the  rider's  spirits  freed. 

The  golden  mainland  draws  more  near  — 

"  O  gallant  horse  !  'tis  here  !  " 

Vn.  —  ELUSION 

Across  the  Kills  the  muskets  crack  — 

"  Ha  !  ha  I "'  Lord  Herman  waves  his  beaver : 
"  Die  of  thy  spleen  ere  I  come  back. 


320  POEMS 

Old  Stuyvesant !  "  With  a  noise  of  wrack 
The  fort  blew  up  of  his  aggriever !  — 
But  not  without  retriever ; 

For  from  the  smoke  two  pigeons  fly, 

One  south,  one  westward,  separating, 
And  straight  as  arrows  crossed  the  sky, 
With  silent  orders  ("  He  must  die 

Who  comes  hereafter.     Lie  in  waiting  !  ") 
Their  snowy  pinions  freighting. 

They  warn  the  men  of  Minisink ; 

They  warn  the  Dutchmen  of  Zuydt  River. 
Now  speed  to  Jersey's  farther  brink. 
Old  horse,  old  master,  ere  ye  shrink !  — 
Or  ambushed  fall  ere  moonrise  quiver 
On  paths  where  ye  shall  shiver. 

On  went  the  twain  till  past  the  ford 
That  red-walled  Raritan  led  over, 

And  lonely  woodland  shades  explored. 

Unarmed  with  firelock  or  with  sword, 
Free-hearted  rode  the  forest  rover, 
Of  all  wild  kind  the  drover : 

Fled  deer  and  bear  before  his  coming, 
The  wild-cat  glared,  the  viper  hissed ; 

And  died  the  long  day's  insect-drumming. 

Where  things  of  night  began  their  humming. 
And  witchly  phantoms  went  to  tryst. 
Was  Herman  exorcist. 


HERMAN   OF  BOHEMIA   MANOR      321 

"  No  land  so  tangled  but  my  eye 

Can  map  its  confines  and  its  courses ; 

Yet  on  life's  map  who  can  espy 

Where  hides  his  foe  —  where  he  shall  die  ?  " 
So  Herman  said,  and  his  resources 
Resigned  unto  his  horse's. 

All  night  the  steed  instinctive  travelled  — 

His  weary  rider  wept  for  him  — 
Through  unseen  gulfs  the  whirlwmd  ravelled, 
Up  moonlit  beds  of  streamlets  gravelled, 

Till  halting  every  bleeding  limb, 

He  stands  by  something  dim. 

And  will  not  stir  till  morning  breaks. 

"  What  is  't  I  see,  low  clustering  there. 
Beyond  those  broadening  bays  and  lakes, 
That  yonder  point  familiar  makes  ?  — 

Is  it  New  Amstel,  lowly  fair. 

And  this  the  Delaware  ?  " 

VIII. THE    ECHO 

Lord  Herman  hugged  his  horse  with  pride ; 

He  raised  his  horn  and  blew  so  loudly, 
That  more  than  echoes  back  replied : 
Horns  answered  louder ;  horsemen  cried. 

And  muskets  banged,  as  if  avowedly 

On  Stuy vesant's  errand  proudly ! 

"  Die,  traitor !  fleer !  though  thou  'scape 

Our  ambush  on  thy  devil's  racer, 
Caught  here  upon  this  marshy  cape, 


322  POEMS 

Thy  bones  the  muskrat's  brood  shall  scrape, 
The  sturgeon  suck  —  Death  thy  embracer  !  " 
So  shouts  each  sanguine  chaser. 

To  die  in  sight  of  Amstel's  walls, 

And  gallant  Joost  to  die  beside  him  ?  — 

O  foolish  blast,  such  fate  that  calls ! 

O  river,  that  the  heart  appalls ! 

Dear  Joost  may  live.    And  the^/  bestride  him  ? 
"  By  hell !  none  else  shall  ride  him ! 

"  My  steed,  thy  limbs  like  mine  are  sore ! 

Few  years  are  left  us  ere  the  billows 
Roll  over  both.  Come  but  once  more, 
And  to  the  bottom  or  the  shore, 

Bear  me  and  thee  to  happy  pillows. 

Or  'neath  the  water  willows  !  " 

He  strokes  old  Joost.     He  bends  him  low. 

He  winds  his  horn  and  laughs  derision. 
One  spring !  —  they've  cleared  the  bog  and  sloe. 
And  down  the  ebb-tide  buoyant  go  — 

That  stately  tide,  so  like  a  vision 

Of  home,  to  Norse  and  Frisian, 

Where  full  a  league  spread  Maas  and  Rhine, 
And  in  the  marsh  the  rice-birds  twitter ; 

The  long  cranes  pasture  and  the  kine 

Loom  lofty  in  the  misty  shine 

Of  dawn  and  reedy  islands  glitter : 
Yet  death  all  where  is  bitter. 


HEBMAN  OF  BOHEMIA  MAN  OB       323 

Ere  out  of  range  a  volley  peals, 

But  greed  too  great  made  aye  a  blunder. 

His  horse  Lord  Herman's  self  conceals, 

Yet  once  his  horse  and  he  go  under, 
And  rise  agrain.     No  wound  he  feels. 
They  hold  their  fire  in  wonder ! 

Short  of  the  mark  the  bullets  splash : 

"  Now  drown  thee,  wizard  !  at  thy  pleasure," 

The  Dutchmen  hiss  through  teeth  they  gnash. 

He  answers  not ;  for  o'er  the  plash 

Of  waves  he  hears  Joost's  gasping  measure 
Of  breath's  fast  wasting  treasure. 

IX.  —  PEGASUS 

The  sighs  when  dying  comrades  fall, 

Struck  by  the  foe,  are  only  sad ; 
They  leaped  the  ditch  and  climbed  the  wall. 
And  shared  the  purpose  of  us  all ; 

The  fame  they  have ;  the  joy  they  had : 

"  Rest  in  thy  tracks,  brave  lad !  " 

But  thou,  poor  beast !  unknown  to  fame, 

"Whose  heart  is  reached  while  ours  is  bounding, 
Amidst  the  victory's  acclaim  — 
By  thee  we  kneel  with  more  of  shame. 

That  bore  us  through  the  fight  resounding. 
And  dumbly  took  our  wounding  ! 

Lord  Herman  saw  the  blood  drops  seethe, 

The  nag's  neck  droop,  the  nostril  bubble, 
And  loosed  the  bridle  from  liis  teeth ; 


324  POEMS 

Yet  swam  the  old  legs  underneath, 
Invincibly.     The  gap  they  double ; 
But  further  swim  in  trouble. 

And  lovely  Nature  stretched  her  aid, 

Her  sympathetic  tow  and  eddy ; 
The  oars  of  air  with  azure  blade, 
And  silent  gravities  persuade 

And  waft  them  onward,  slow  and  steady  — 

On  duteous  deeds  aye  ready. 

High  leaped  the  perch.    The  hawk  screamed  joy. 

Under  Joost's  belly  musically 
The  ripples  broke.     Bright  clouds  convoy 
The  brute  that  man  would  but  destroy, 

And  all  instinctive  agents  rally 

Strong  and  medicinally. 

In  vain !  The  gurgling  waters  suck 

That  old  life  under.     Herman  swimming 
Seized  but  the  horse  tail.     Like  a  buck 
Breasting  a  lake  in  wild  woods'  pluck, 

Joost  rose,  the  glaze  his  bright  eyes  dimming, 
And  blood  his  sockets  brimming. 

Then,  voices  speak  and  women  cry. 

The  treading  feet  find  soil  to  stand. 
Above  them  the  green  ramparts  lie, 
And  'twixt  their  shadows  and  the  sky. 

The  wondering  burghers  crowd  the  strand, 

And  Herman  help  to  land : 


HEBMAN  OF  BOHEMIA   MANOR       325 

"  Now  to  Newcastle's  English  walls, 

Hail,  Herman  !  and  thy  matchless  stud  !  " 

Joost  staggere  up  the  bank  and  falls, 

And,  dying,  to  his  master  crawls. 
Yields  up  his  long  solicitude. 
And  spills  his  vems  of  blood. 

In  Herman's  arms  his  neck  is  prest. 

With  martial  pride  his  dark  eye  glazes ; 

He  feels  the  hand  he  loves  the  best 

Stroke  fondly,  and  a  chill  of  rest. 
As  if  he  rolled  in  pasture  daisies 
And  heard  in  wmds  his  praises : 

"  O  couldst  thou  speak,  what  wouldst  thou  say  ? 

I,  who  can  speak,  am  dumb  before  thee. 
Thine  eyes  that  drink  Olympian  day 
Where  steeds  of  wings  thy  soul  convey, 

With  pride  of  eagles  circling  o'er  thee : 

Thou  seest  I  adore  thee  ! 

"  Bound  to  thy  starry  home  and  her 

Who  brought  me  thee  and  left  earth  hollow  ! 
An  honored  grave  thy  bones  inter. 
And  painting  shall  thy  fame  confer. 
Ere  in  thy  shining  track  I  follow, 
Thou  courser  of  Apollo  !  " 


326  POEMS 


MECCA   FROM   OASIS 

The  people  of  Mahomet 

In  desert  places  dwell, 
The  palm  tree  is  their  fortress, 

Their  citadel  a  well ; 
Once  in  their  lives  so  lonely, 

They  shall  one  city  view  — 
Mecca !  Mecca  !  Mecca  ! 

We  pilgrims  long  for  you  ! 

(Repeat  Chorus.^ 

"We  Arabs  love  to  circle 

Around  the  Caravan, 
Our  hearts  are  ever  social, 

We  love  our  fellow-man. 
But  Ishmael,  our  father, 

No  habitation  knew : 
Mecca!  Mecca!  Mecca! 

We  pilgrims  long  for  you  ! 

Mahomet's  mighty  pity 

His  lonely  people  gave 
One  chance  to  see  a  city. 

Around  his  holy  grave,  — 
O,  ope  the  golden  wonder ! 

The  city  let  us  view ! 
Mecca !  Mecca  !  Mecca ! 

We  pilgrims  long  for  you  ! 


PLATING  HOUSE  327 


LATTER-DAY   SAINTS 


All  evidences  of  a  living  church 

Are  here,  although  imposture  is  its  fame. 

The  angel  who  made  for  a  prophet  search 
And  showed  him  Revelation  to  reclaim 

Of  his  own  hemisphere,  that  Chi'istians  smirch. 
But  foreign  superstition  never  blame  : 
Miracles,  portents,  exodus  and  flame, 

The  Pentecost  of  tongues,  martyrs,  belief. 
Virtuous  women  to  believers  wife, 

Disciples  watching  with  their  doomed  chief, 
Apostles  victrix   over  pagan  strife, 
A  Promised  Land,  a  strictly-ordered  life. 

Reason  alone  these  evidences  prods  — 

Reason,  that  is  the  judgment  seat  on  Gods. 
Utah,  1889. 

PLAYING   HOUSE 

Within  me  lay  a  little  boy 

When  I  thought  I  was  a  man  ; 
He  was  too  poor  to  own  a  toy 

And  many  a  toy  would  plan ; 
A  mystic  hole  —  some  cellar  once  — 

Lay  in  his  father's  parsonage  lot : 
The  fancy  of  this  little  dunce 

Built  in  the  hole  Aladdin's  grot. 

He  saw  a  staircase  there  descend 
And  he  saw  apartments  rise  — 
Stone  walls,  bright  halls,  rooms  for  a  friend 


328  POEMS 

And  the  maid  with  bashful  eyes ; 
And  Cinderella's  steeds  did  browse 

In  fancy  on  that  pasture  ridge, 
And  fancy  dropped  from  fancy's  house, 

A  road  down  to  the  springlet's  bridge. 

All  fairy  things  the  urchin  planned, 

But  Aladdin's  uncle's  lamp, 
Yet  that  alone  was  in  his  hand  — 

The  friendless  little  scamp : 
Inquiry,  wistfulness,  desire,  — 

To  find  what  is  in  what  but  seems, — 
The  tinder  wick  to  turn  to  fire 

The  rusty  lamp  of  golden  dreams. 

What  is  it  yonder  on  the  mount 

Like  a  palace  that  I  see  ?  — 
After  the  forty  years  I  count 

In  the  caverns  of  mystery  ? 
A  King's  highway  drops  down  the  steep 

To  a  bridge  across  a  brook. 
And  I  see  a  child  who  walks  in  sleep 

Descend  with  a  lamp  and  book : 

It  is  my  bridge  below  my  dome, 

My  road,  my  steeds,  I  spy ; 
The  hole  in  the  pasture  is  my  home 

And  the  little  boy  is  I. 
Oh  cruel  uncle,  leave  me  not 

Without  my  lamp's  bright  spark !  — 
Though  I  am  king  of  the  golden  grot, 

I  am  poor  if  it  is  dark. 


Tomb  at  Gaplaxd 


'•^VNHO.Hny^' 

JC 

AJ.I8a3AiNn 

3HX   JO 


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